She went out of the room and came back five minutes later with her hat and coat on.
"It's a long way," she began.
"I have a taxi at the door."
"We cannot go all the way by taxi. Tell the man to drive to Baker Street," she said.
She spoke no word during the journey, nor was Beale inclined for conversation. At Baker Street Station they stopped and the cab was dismissed. Together they walked in silence, turning from the main road, passing the Central Station and plunging into a labyrinth of streets which was foreign territory to the American.
It seemed that he had passed in one step from one of the best-class quarters of the town to one of the worst. One minute he was passing through a sedate square, lined with the houses of the well-to-do, another minute he was in a slum.
"The place is at the end of this street," she said.
They came to what seemed to be a stable-yard. There was a blank wall with one door and a pair of gates. The girl took a key from her bag, opened the small door and stepped in, and Beale followed.
They were in a yard littered with casks. On two sides of the yard ran low-roofed buildings which had apparently been used as stables. She locked the door behind her, walked across the yard to the corner and opened another door.
"There are fourteen steps down," she said, "have you a light of any kind?"