“Very well,” he said, “we’ll start at once.”
He put on his hat again and waited while the commissionaire called them a taxicab.
“What address?” he asked.
“Number 7, Theobald Square,” the boy said. Laverick nodded and repeated the address to the driver.
“What the dickens can Morrison be doing in a part like that!” he thought, as they passed up Northumberland Avenue.
CHAPTER XIV
ARTHUR MORRISON’S COLLAPSE
The Square was a small one, and in a particularly unsavory neighborhood. Laverick, who had once visited his partner’s somewhat extensive suite of rooms in Jermyn Street, rang the bell doubtfully. The door was opened almost at once, not by a servant but by a young lady who was obviously expecting him. Before he could open his lips to frame an inquiry, she had closed the door behind him.
“Will you please come this way?” she said timidly.
Laverick found himself in a small sitting-room, unexpectedly neat, and with the plainness of its furniture relieved by certain undeniable traces of some cultured presence. The girl who had followed him stood with her back to the door, a little out of breath. Laverick contemplated her in surprise. She was under medium height, with small pale face and wonderful dark eyes. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and arranged low down, so that at first, taking into account her obvious nervousness, he thought that she was a child. When she spoke, however, he knew that for some reason she was afraid. Her voice was soft and low, but it was the voice of a woman.
“It is Mr. Laverick, is it not?” she asked, looking at him eagerly.