The builder rubbed his hands with some satisfaction.
“You have taken two days less than we expected,” Mr. Spedding went on.
The builder was a man of few ideas outside his trade. He said again—
“Yes, your client may start business to-morrow.”
The solicitor smiled.
“My client, Mr. Potham, may not—er—start business—for ten years,” he said. “In fact, until—well, until he dies, Mr. Potham.”
CHAPTER II
THE HOUSE IN TERRINGTON SQUARE
A man turned into Terrington Square from Seymour Street and walked leisurely past the policeman on point duty, bidding him a curt “good night.” The officer subsequently described the passer, as a foreign-looking gentleman with a short pointed beard. Under the light overcoat he was apparently in evening dress, for the officer observed the shoes with the plain black bow, and the white silk muffler and the crush hat supported that view. The man crossed the road, and disappeared round the corner of the railed garden that forms the center of the square. A belated hansom came jingling past, and an early newspaper cart, taking a short cut to Paddington, followed; then the square was deserted save for the man and the policeman.
The grim, oppressive houses of the square were wrapped in sleep—drawn blinds and shuttered windows and silence.
The man continued his stroll until he came abreast of No. 43. Here he stopped for a second, gave one swift glance up and down the thoroughfare, and mounted the three steps of the house. He fumbled a little with the key, turned it, and entered. Inside he stood for a moment, then taking a small electric lamp from his pocket he switched on the current.