“Do either of them live there, sir?” he asked.
“How should I know!” Tavernake answered. “The man sprang upon my friend from behind. He had a knife in his hand—I saw it. My friend threw him over and he escaped into that house. They are both there now.
“Which house is it, sir?” the policeman inquired.
They were standing almost in front of it. The gate was open and Tavernake beat against the panels with the flat of his hand. Then, with a cry of triumph, he stooped down and picked something up from a crack in the flagged stones.
“The key!” he cried. “Come on, quick!”
He thrust it into the lock and turned it; the door swung smoothly open. The policeman laid his hand upon Tavernake's shoulder.
“Look here,” he said, “let's have that story of yours again, a little more clearly. Who is it that's in this house?”
“Five minutes ago,” Tavernake began, speaking rapidly, “I met a man in the Strand whom I know slightly—Pritchard, an American detective. He said that he had something to say to me and he asked me to walk round with him to a club in this Terrace. We were in the middle of the road there, talking, when a man sprang at him; he must have come up behind quite noiselessly. The man had a knife in his hand. My friend threw him head over heels—it was some trick of jiu-jutsu; I have seen it done at the Polytechnic. He fell in front of this door which must either have been ajar or else some one who was waiting must have let him in. He crawled through and my friend followed him. The door was slammed in my face.”
“How long ago was this?” the policeman asked.
“Not much more than five minutes,” Tavernake answered.