"Herbert Jarmayne, same address."
"Herbert Jarmayne?" I glanced at Clara, who nodded back, pausing as she lifted her glass! "Ah! yes—yes, of course. How much?"
"Two tenners."
"Deep answering deep. Drunk and disorderly, I suppose?"
"Blind. He was breaking glasses at Toscano's and swearing he was Sir Charles Wyndham in David Garrick: but he settled down quiet at the station, and when I left he was talking religious and saying he pitied nine-tenths of the world, for they were going to get it hot."
"Trewlove!" I almost shouted, wheeling round upon Clara.
"I beg your pardon?"
"No, of course—you wouldn't understand. But all the same it's Trewlove," I cried, radiant. "Eh?"—this to Horrex, mumbling in the doorway—"the cab outside? Step along, constable: I'll follow in a moment—to identify your prisoner, not to bail him out." Then as he touched his hat and marched out after Horrex, "By George, though! Trewlove!" I muttered, meeting Clara's eye and laughing.
"So you've said," she agreed doubtfully; "but it seems a funny sort of explanation."
"It's as simple as A B C," I assured her. "The man at Marlborough Street is the man who let you this house."