The man he sought was not easy to find. Mr. Cramp had his own reasons for keeping clear of the police. The whole alley was known by the name of Dixon's Rents, and Thorold had no idea in which of the houses to ask for him. He questioned a stunted street Arab with wolfish eyes, emphasizing his request with a sixpence.
"Oh, Cicero!" yelped the lad, biting the coin. "Yuss, he's round about. Dunno! Y'ain't a 'tec?"
"What's that?"
"A de-tec-tive," drawled the boy. "Cicero ain't wanted, is he?"
"Not by me. Is Cicero generally--er--wanted?" inquired Alan delicately.
The urchin closed one eye rapidly, and grinned with many teeth. But, instead of replying he took to shouting hoarsely for "Mother Ginger." The surrounding population popped out of their burrows like so many rabbits, and for the next few minutes "Mother Ginger" was asked for vigorously. Alan looked round at the ragged, blear-eyed slum-dwellers, but could see nothing of the lady in question. Suddenly his arm was twitched, and he turned to find a dwarf no higher than his waist trying to attract his attention. Mother Ginger, for it was she, had a huge head of red hair, fantastically decked with ribbons of many colors. Her dress, too, was rainbow-hued, like Joseph's coat. She had carpet slippers on her huge feet, and white woolen gloves on her large hands. Her face was as large as a frying-pan and of a pallid hue, with expressionless blue eyes and a big mouth. Alan saw in her a female Quasimodo.
"Wot is it?" she inquired. Evidently Mother Ginger was vain of her finery and of the attention she attracted. "Is it Mr. Gramp you want, m'dimber-cove?"
"Yes. Can you take me to him?" asked Thorold, wincing at the penny-whistle quality of her voice. "Is he at home?"
"P'r'aps he is, p'r'aps he ain't," retorted Mother Ginger, with a fascinating leer. "Wot d'ye want with him?"
"This will explain." And Alan put Cicero's letter into her hand. "Give him that."