"Does Mr. Maxwell live at the shop?" asked the Inspector.
"No, sir."
"Where then?"
"Ponson Street—third house on the left-hand side."
"Thank you."
Once more we jumped into the cab and rattled off. It seemed to me, so anxious and terrified was I for my darling's safety, that we were fated never to get the information we wanted; the whole thing was like some nightmare, in which, try how I would to move, every step was clogged.
A few minutes' drive brought us to Ponson Street, and we drew up at the third house on the left-hand side. It was a pretty little villa, with a nice front garden and a creeper-covered verandah. We rang the bell and waited. Presently we heard some one coming down the passage, and a moment later the door was unlocked.
"Who is there?" cried a voice from within.
"Police," said my companion as before.
The door was immediately opened, and a very small sandy-complexioned man, dressed in a flaring suit of striped pyjamas, stood before us. "Is anything wrong, gentlemen?" he asked nervously.