All this seemed strongly to point to the fact that the Dumpling did indeed believe me to be the hated detective. How he had got wind of Grant's intention to effect an entrance to the den, or how Grant had contrived successfully to effect that entrance, and to disarm suspicion, I did not know; but, supposing that news of the threatened danger had only reached the ears of the Dumpling a few moments before my arrival, and before he had time to turn his suspicions in other directions—the fact that the news was followed by the entrance of a suspicious stranger, who could give no better explanation for his presence than a lame and apparently trumped-up story about a commission to write a magazine article on opium dens, would certainly lend colour to the assumption that I was the expected man. The determined and desperate efforts which had subsequently been made to murder me, all seemed to point the same way; and I decided to start my investigation by assuming that the Dumpling and his accomplices had believed, and still believed, me to be none other than Robert Grant, the detective.
If that were so, my escape would cause something like a panic among them, and would lead to their taking immediate steps to discover my whereabouts, and to put me out of the way. The first of these immediate steps would be to set a watch upon Grant's house; and to discover whether this was being done, must be my very first business. The fact that Grant's house was being watched—unless, of course, I could satisfy myself that the watching was being done by the police—would not only go far to prove the accuracy of my theory, but would also be the means of putting me upon the track of the Dumpling or of his accomplices.
Naturally, I had to go to work very carefully. Were I, even if skilfully disguised, to do so much as walk twice, or even once, up the street in which Grant's house was situated, I should be in danger of attracting attention. Shadowing the house by concealing myself in dark doorways and lurking around corners, was quite out of the question, and the common plan of posing as a lodger, and hiring a room or rooms in an opposite or neighbouring house, would be equally impracticable.
Even if I commissioned a friend to make the necessary inquiries, I should have to take possession of my lodgings—if suitable lodgings with a view of the street were found, which was by no means certain—more or less openly; and having once taken possession, I could not get in and out without attracting attention.
Everyone who knows the West End of London is familiar with the somewhat shabby side streets which borrow gentility and grandeur from the fact that they are situated near, or off, a fashionable square, from which they take their name. Grant lived in Taunton Place, a modest little street consisting of two rows of small houses which abutted upon the many mansions of aristocratic Taunton Square. Driving through Taunton Place, sitting well back and out of sight in the recesses of a four-wheel cab, I observed an empty house on the opposite side of the way to Grant's, and almost at the corner where Taunton Place and Taunton Square converged. Waiting till night had set in, I burgled this empty house from the back, and began my watch.
The result was in every way satisfactory. Grant's house was undoubtedly being watched, and by a man who, it was not difficult to see, was doing double duty. He was keeping a constant eye not only upon No. 10, Taunton Place, where Grant resided, but also upon a big, pretentious, bow-windowed and pillar-porticoed mansion known as No. 5, Taunton Square.
Again and again I saw him pass the windows of the big house and look in; again and again I saw him watching, from his corner, everyone who called either at No. 10, Taunton Place, or at No. 5, Taunton Square.
After a time a well-dressed man walked up to No. 5, Taunton Square, knocked, and, when the door was opened, entered. He remained there for twenty minutes, and when he came out was promptly followed by the shadower. The coast being thus clear, I left my own post, and on making inquiries at a tavern where I called for a glass of beer, was told that No. 5, Taunton Square had recently been taken by a gentleman from America, named Carleton, a widower and reputed millionaire, who lived there with his daughter, Kate, and his unmarried sister. Here again was an interesting discovery which promised developments. The hapless Parker had told me of seven millionaires who once a month repaired to a tavern in Shadwell, where they dined upon humble fare, drank "four half" out of pint pots, and smoked shag tobacco in clay pipes. It did not seem to be an improbable story, and, personally, I had a secret and sneaking sympathy—due possibly to my own low tastes—with anything which promised so complete and sensible a return to nature. I have myself partaken—not lavishly, perhaps, but with gusto—of malt liquors, served in pewter pots in country taverns, have smacked my lips (another evidence of a debased nature), and have sat back in my chair, sighing with replete contentment, and possibly with an inner man by no means indifferently fortified by that excellent complement to good beer—bread and cheese. At such times I have called life good, and have found myself in peace and charity with all my neighbours.
Did all self-made millionaires renew their youth, and remind themselves of their struggling days, by becoming members of the club of which Parker had spoken, they would afterwards, I am persuaded, return to the scene of their splendour in a humble and chastened frame of mind, which might possibly prompt them to do something more permanent, and more sensible, for their less fortunate fellow creatures than the founding of free libraries. I may add that I do not claim any copyright in the idea, and that should Mr. Andrew Carnegie be as assiduous a reader of my instructive writings as it is to be hoped a gentleman so interested in the free circulation of sound literature should be, he need fear no action for infringement of copyright, should he be disposed to devote the remainder of his—I fear—fast vanishing millions to such a purpose.
But to return to my story.