"The son is named Guy?" he asked. "Does he live at home?"
"Just left us," was the reply. "Gone to live in the Albany on his own account. Let me see; it was three—" He calculated the weeks on his fingers. "No, four weeks ago."
Inspector Kenly perceived that the date coincided with that of the speculation.
He thanked his old comrade, and strolled thoughtfully across the park and dropped into Vine Street Police Station, where he was cordially welcomed by the detective inspector on duty.
With him Kenly did not waste any time in preliminaries. When he had discussed one or two matters of official interest, he broached his object. "I want to find out something about one of the tenants in the Albany," he remarked. "Are any of your people here friendly with the man at the gate?"
"Isn't your card enough?" suggested the local detective.
"No," said Kenly. "It's a very delicate matter. I don't want to appear to be making any especial enquiries."
"I had better come along with you myself, then," was the prompt response. "I know the old chap pretty well, and I don't think he will try to pull my leg, as he usually does when people ask him questions."
"That sort of man, is he?" asked Kenly, as they left the police station in company.
"Fly as they make 'em," was the response. "There are usually more than one or two young bloods living there, and when they don't pay up and the writ-men are after them, it takes a smart man to keep them out. Yet, since the present porter has been there, not a writ has been served in the place."