“No, he didn't. He didn't say nothing.”
“Didn't give you any address for his letters to be forwarded to?”
Mr Brown shot him another of his lowering glances. “There hasn't been no letters.”
There was little more to be got out of him. After one or two more questions which were answered in the same grudging manner, Hannasyde left the shop. The personality of Mr John Hyde, about which he had felt, an hour earlier, only a mild curiosity, had suddenly become a problem of unexpected importance. The elusive Mr Hyde would have to be found, and his connection with Gregory Matthews traced to its source. It was a job for the department, but while he was on his way to Scotland Yard Hannasyde all at once changed his mind, and instead of going to Whitehall, got on an omnibus bound for Piccadilly, and went to pay a call on Mr Randall Matthews.
Chapter Nine
It was nearly noon by the time Hannasyde arrived at Randall's flat, but that elegant young gentleman received him in a brocade dressing-gown of gorgeous colouring and design. He seemed, with the exception of his coat, to be fully clad under the glowing robe, so Hannasyde concluded that the wearing of it was due rather to a love of the exotic than to actual sloth. He smiled inwardly at the thought of Sergeant Hemingway's appreciation of the dressing-gown, could he but have seen it, and embarked without preamble on an explanation of his visit.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr Matthews,” he said, “but I think you may be able to help me.”
“How gratifying!” said Randall. “Let me give you a glass of sherry.”
“Thank you, but I won't take anything just now. Does the name of Hyde convey anything to you?”
Randall poured himself out a glass of sherry, and replaced the stopper in the decanter. “Well—parks,” he said.