“Much obliged, I’m sure.”
The young man crossed the room, and taking a book out of a cupboard, turned over the pages rapidly.
“29 Babcock Street. It’s off Charing Cross Road, about half-way down on the left hand side going south. You’ll get him there if he hasn’t moved.”
French, having noted the address, turned to go.
“Wait a sec’,” said the young man. “I’m not certain, but I believe Richard Jacques put out those plays you mentioned. If so, he could probably help you better than any one. He does business at that new place he has taken over, the Aladdin in Piccadilly. You should try him.”
French thanked his new friend, and after again traversing the endless corridors of the huge building, found himself once more in the street.
At 29 Babcock Street the door was opened to him by a respectable-looking woman, who said that her husband, Peter Dowds, was within. His health was poor, but if the gentleman would come in, he would make shift to come down to see him.
French sat down to wait in the tiny parlour. Presently a shuffling became audible in the hall, and the door, opening slowly, revealed a short but immensely stout man, whose small eyes blinked inquisitively at his visitor as the latter rose and wished him good-day.
“Good-day, good-day,” the man wheezed, as he steered himself across the room and sank into one of the chairs. “It’s the asthma,” he went on in a husky voice. “It’s always bad this time of year.” He stopped and sat panting, then went on, “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” French admitted, “but I’m sorry to find your asthma so bad. What do you do for it?”