“The popular legend was that a subterranean river ran into the sea near Selsey Bill—of course, some distance beneath the surface of the water. But, as you know, country people live on such legends. In all probability it is nothing but a legend.”
Inspector Lyle was waiting for the detective when he arrived, with news of a startling character.
“The advertisement appeared in this morning’s Daily Star,” he said.
Michael took the slip of paper. It was identically worded with its predecessor.
“Is your trouble of mind or body incurable? Do you hesitate on the brink of the abyss? Does courage fail you? Write to Benefactor, Box——”
“There will be no reply till to-morrow morning. Letters are to be readdressed to a shop in the Lambeth Road, and the chief wants you to be ready to pick up the trail.”
The trail indeed proved to be well laid. At four o’clock on the following afternoon, a lame old woman limped into the newsagent’s shop on the Lambeth Road and inquired for a letter addressed to Mr. Vole. There were three waiting for her. She paid the fee, put the letters into a rusty old handbag and limped out of the shop, mumbling and talking to herself. Passing down the Lambeth Road, she boarded a tramcar en route for Clapham, and near the Common she alighted and, passing out of the region of middle-class houses, came to a jumble of tenements and ancient tumble-down dwellings.
Every corner she turned brought her to a street meaner than the last, and finally to a low, arched alleyway, the paving of which had not been renewed for years. It was a little cul-de-sac, its houses, built in the same pattern, joined wall to wall, and before the last of these she stopped, took out a key from her pocket and opened the door. She was turning to close it when she was aware that a man stood in the entrance, a tall, good-looking gentleman, who must have been on her heels all the time.
“Good afternoon, mother,” he said.
The old woman peered at him suspiciously, grumbling under her breath. Only hospital doctors and workhouse folk, people connected with charity, called women “mother”; and sometimes the police got the habit. Her grimy old face wrinkled hideously at this last unpleasant thought.