"Primrose Crescent, in Bloomsbury," replied Mrs. Povy. The detective took the address and went down stairs, followed by Mrs. Povy.
"You don't think Mr. Desmond did it, sir?" began Totty, "for a more----"
"I don't think anything," said Dowker, putting on his hat. "You'll hear soon enough what is done."
As he hurried away Mrs. Povy shut the door and returned to her room, where she implored Mrs. Swizzle to mix her a glass of brandy.
"I've 'ad such a turn," she wailed, "as never was. Oh, it's a blessing Povy died afore he saw his wife mixed up with them nasty police."
[CHAPTER VI.]
A SUCCESSFUL EXPERIMENT.
Dowker walked along Piccadilly thinking deeply about the curious aspect the case was now assuming. As far as he could make out, Myles Desmond was the last person who saw Miss Sarschine alive, and he having gone out a few minutes after the interview, it seemed as though he had followed her. The only thing to be done was to see Ellersby, and as he was stopping at the Guelph Hotel Dowker went along in that direction. He followed the same path as he surmised the dead woman must have taken, but what puzzled him was the reason she had for going into Jermyn Street.
"After she found out Calliston had gone off with Lady Balscombe," he muttered, "the most obvious course would be for her to go home, but she evidently did not intend to do so. I wonder if she walked or took a cab? Walked, I suppose. Let me see, it was a foggy night and she got lost, that is the explanation. But then this man or woman she met; it must have been a friend as she would hardly have stopped talking to a stranger, unless indeed she asked the way. Lord," ejaculated Mr. Dowker, suddenly stopping short, "fancy if this murder turns out to be the work of some tramp, but no, that's bosh, tramps wouldn't use a poisoned dagger--unless they took the one she carried. Hang it! it's the most perplexing case I was ever in."
He had by this time arrived at the Guelph Hotel and sent up his card to Mr. Ellersby. The waiter soon returned with the information that Mr. Ellersby was in and would see him, so he went upstairs and was shown into a sitting-room. At one end near the window sat Spencer Ellersby in a comfortable armchair smoking a pipe and reading a French novel. A remarkably unpromising-looking bulldog lay at his feet and arose with an ominous growl as Dowker entered the room.