"Oh," said the porter, and a hearty guffaw rolled up from beneath his capacious waistcoat. "If you'd have spoken in plain English I should have understood you. But these newfangled words——"
Inspector Kenly did not explain. He set himself to amuse his new acquaintance, and succeeded so well that, when an hour later he declared that he must depart, he received a cordial invitation to drop into the hutch whenever he might be passing. He had succeeded better than he had expected; not only had he discovered that his late lodger was in Guy Hora's employment, but he had also been favoured with the opportunity of making acquaintance with Guy's features, for, while he had been chatting with the porter, Guy had driven up to the gate and entered the building.
The detective began to feel that he had in his hands the threads which, when unravelled, might lead him to some important discovery. The unravelling might require infinite patience, but he was inured to that. There was no detail too small for him to overlook. He went straight from the Albany to the humble lodging in Soho, which was Under's address. He needed all his philosophy. Under was not at home. Kenly waited for him, waited for six hours until the valet came home, walking unsteadily, and with a vacant look in his eye. The detective did not speak to him. When the door closed on him he made his own way homewards to Woodbine Cottage.
He was very tired when he laid his head on the pillow, but at eight o'clock the next morning he was enquiring again for Under, and by aid of his most persuasive smile succeeded in winning his way to the room where the valet still lay, slumbering heavily.
"Here, wake up, old fellow," the detective shouted cheerily as he closed the door, for the benefit of the landlady who had shown him up to the room.
Under merely moved uneasily. A blind, with the grime of years upon it left the room shrouded in gloom. Kenly drew it up, and opened the window. It was a bare apartment. Grimy bed, a single chair, a cheap washstand in painted wood with a cracked basin standing upon it, a battered tin box, and a ragged strip of carpet formed the whole of the furniture.
Under stirred as the light of day fell on his face. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes drowsily. Then he caught sight of his visitor and rubbed his eyes again.
"I say, look here," he remarked, when he had come to the conclusion that he was not dreaming. "This is my room, you know."
"That's exactly the reason why I am here," remarked Kenly pleasantly.
Under stared more fixedly than before, and as Kenly seemed quite unmoved he remarked: