Upon this occasion they directed their steps at once to Finsbury, and, after a slow, and what seemed to Matt a painful, walk, they reached their destination.
“Here is the house,” said Septimus, after a reference to his pocket-book; “this is the number.”
“H’m!—‘Tollicks’ Registry Office for Servants,’” read Matt from the board over the door. “This isn’t the doctor’s. Sure of the number, sir?”
“Yes,” said Septimus, referring once more to his pocket-book; “yes; this is the number I took down.”
“So it is,” said Matt, after a reference to his own memorandum-book. “That’s right enough; but wait a bit, one never knows where to be right or wrong with numbers; they always were things as bothered a man; for you have your numbers so-and-so a, and b, and c, and goodness knows how many more, until you’re regularly puzzled. Perhaps that’s an a, or a b, or something of that kind, and the number we want is somewhere else.”
“Let’s walk on a little,” said Septimus; and they went slowly down one side and up the other, but this proved to be the only house numbered as they wanted.
“Do you know of a Mr Phillips, a surgeon, in this neighbourhood?” said Septimus to the first policeman they met.
The man of order shook his head, beat his white gloves together, and then rearranged the shaken head in his shiny stock before continuing his walk.
“Let’s go to the fountain-head at once,” said Matt; “perhaps they know something about him. Here we are again—‘Tollicks’ Registry Office for Servants.’ Let’s see what Mr Tollicks knows about him.”
“Stop a minute,” said Septimus, to keep procrastination alive for a few moments longer. “Perhaps there is another door.”