“The back entrances are all properly locked,” the policeman pointed out. “None of the windows by which any one could escape have been opened. We've been into every room. There's no one in the house now, sir, is there?”
“There doesn't seem to be,” Tavernake admitted.
The policeman looked him over once more; Tavernake certainly had not the appearance of one attempting a hoax.
“I am afraid there is nothing more we can do, sir,” the man said civilly. “You had better give me your name and address.”
“Can't we go over the place once more?” Tavernake suggested. “I tell you I saw them come in.”
“I have my beat outside to look after, sir,” the constable answered. “If it wasn't that you seem respectable, I should begin to think that you wanted me out of the way for a bit. Name and address, please.”
Tavernake gave them readily. They passed out together into the street.
“I shall report this matter,” the man said, closing his book. “Perhaps the sergeant will have the house searched again. If you take my advice, sir,” he added, “you'll go home.”
“I saw them both pass through that door,” Tavernake repeated, half to himself, still standing upon the pavement and staring at the unlit windows.
The constable made no reply but moved off. Soon he reached the corner of the Terrace and disappeared. Tavernake slowly crossed the road and with his back to the railings looked steadfastly at the dark front of gray stone houses. Big Ben struck one o'clock, several people passed backwards and forwards. Men were coming out from the club, and separating for the night; the roar of the city was growing fainter. Yet Tavernake felt indisposed to move. The look in that man's drawn white face and black eyes haunted him, There was tragedy there, the shadow of terrible things, fear, and the murderous desire to kill! Through that door they had passed, the two men, one in flight, the other in pursuit. Where were they now? Perhaps it had been a trap. Pritchard had spoken seriously enough of his enemies.