“Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in here.”
He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably furnished.
“You see that,” said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of his bed. “I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes—never made but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I don’t believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can understand what it means to me when unknown people force themselves into my rooms.”
Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his head.
“I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me,” said he.
“But I have told you everything.”
Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. “Good-night, Dr. Trevelyan,” said he.
“And no advice for me?” cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.
“My advice to you, sir, is to speak the truth.”
A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before I could get a word from my companion.