The Yellow Face

by Fred M. White

But there was more method in Rigby's madness than met the eye. The sleek, well-groomed barrister and journalist who entered the shop of Jonas the costumier shortly after ten o'clock, emerged a little before eleven carefully and effectually disguised as a seller of newspapers. Then, with the fag-end of a cigarette of doubtful quality in his mouth, he slouched along towards his destination.

Montrose Place from a front view was considerably more prepossessing than the similar outlook that presented itself from the back. At least half the houses were tenanted by people of means, judging from the neatness of the blinds and the amount of light displayed in the various windows. Yet, at the same time, it was quite evident that Bates' estimate was fairly correct.

The first three houses in the terrace bore plates of highly polished brass, testifying to the fact that doctors were not lacking in the locality. No. 4, however, stood out in marked contrast to its neighbors. There was no chance of Rigby's presence there exciting undue suspicion, for there was not a soul to be seen in the terrace.

Emboldened by this fact, Rigby had no hesitation in lighting a vesta and making a comprehensive examination of the door-steps. They were dirty enough in all conscience; no housemaid had knelt there for many months or even years past; but Rigby's sharp eyes did not fail to note the fact that some one more than once recently had left footprints on the grimy flags. They were not dearly indented footprints; indeed, there was a misty hesitation about them which at first puzzled the amateur detective exceedingly.

He struck another match after looking cautiously up and down the terrace. Nobody was in sight; the precaution was quite unnecessary; the blue flame picked out the misty footprints grimed into the filthy steps, and then Rigby understood. Whoever made those marks had been wearing rubber-soled shoes.

"And new shoes at that," Rigby muttered to himself. "I can see the pattern in the centre of the sole clearly indented now. And the prints go and come up and down the steps quite regularly. Now, the fact that somebody comes here and wears new rubber shoes makes it clear that the wearer has been here very recently. It is also evident that the wearer wears rubber-soled tennis shoes so as to make no noise. I feel pretty certain that I am going to learn something now."

But Rigby was a little too sanguine. In the first place, he had to gain admission to the house, the front door of which was locked. It was perhaps a significant fact that, though the lock of the door was green with rust, the edge of the rim of the hole where the latch-key indented was bright and clear at the edges.

"Evidently used regularly," Rigby went on. "Now, the ordinary caretaker does not usually sport a latch-key; he or she generally uses the area door. I should not wonder if the area window was open; I'll try it."

The area window was not open, but the loose catch had been carelessly pushed to. The blade of a stout penknife sufficed to prize the catch, and a moment later Rigby was in the housekeeper's room, safe from all outside observation.

There was no sign of life here; no vestige of it on the stairs leading to the big rooms overhead. Rigby could not but notice what a fine house it was; the last tenant had evidently been lavish in the way of decorations. With a match in his hand carefully shaded from the window, Rigby crept up the stairs. He could see in the dust lying there the constantly repeated footprint of the rubber shoe, indicating that the owner of that shoe was in the habit of spending a great deal of time there.