Then, as he stood there, he saw for the first time a thin line of light through the closely-drawn curtains of a room on the ground floor of the adjoining house. Without a moment's hesitation, he crossed the road and rang the bell. The door was opened, after a trifling delay, by a man in plain clothes, who might, however, have been a servant in mufti. He looked at Tavernake suspiciously.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” Tavernake explained, “but I saw some one go in the house next to you, a little time ago. Can you tell me if you have heard any noises or voices during the last half-hour?”
The man shook his head.
“We have heard nothing, sir,” he said.
“Who lives here?” Tavernake asked.
“Did you call me up at one o'clock in the morning to ask silly questions?” the man replied insolently. “Every one's in bed here and I was just going.”
“There's a light in your ground floor room,” Tavernake remarked. “There's some one talking there now—I can hear voices.”
The man closed the door in his face. For some time Tavernake wandered restlessly about, starting at last reluctantly homewards. He had reached the Strand and was crossing Trafalgar Square when a sudden thought held him. He stood still for a moment in the middle of the street. Then he turned abruptly round. In less than five minutes he was once more on the Terrace.