"I am sure she does," Jim returned, and then went on to explain the reason for the journey he was about to undertake.
An hour and a-half later he was seated in a railway carriage and being whirled along towards London at something like fifty miles an hour. If ever a young man in this world was furnished with material for thought, James Standerton that evening was that one. There was his errand to London in the first place to be considered, the singular behaviour of the Black Dwarf a few nights before for another, and the declaration that Helen had made to him that afternoon for a third. In the light of this last catastrophe the finding of the man whom he felt sure was his father's murderer sank into comparative insignificance.
What if the madman should wreak his vengeance upon her? What if in a sudden fit of fury he should drive her from his house? If the latter were to come to pass, however, he felt certain that the place she would fly to would be the Manor House, and in that case Alice would take her in and Terence would see that she was safe from the old man's fury.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when he reached Paddington. Hailing a cab, he bade the man drive him first to his hotel, where he engaged his usual room. When he had consulted a directory, he made his way into the street again. His cabman, whom he had told to wait, professed to be familiar with Upper Bellington Street, but later confessed his entire ignorance of its locality. Jim set him right, and then, taking his place in the cab, bade him drive him thither with all speed. Once more they set off, down Piccadilly, through Leicester Square, and so by way of Long Acre into Holborn. Then the route became somewhat more complicated. Through street after street they passed until Jim lost all idea of the direction in which they were proceeding. Some of the streets were broad and stately, others squalid and dejected, some wood paved, others cobble-stones, in which the rain that had fallen an hour previous stood in filthy puddles.
How long they were driving, Jim had no sort of idea, nor could he have told you in what portion of the town he was then in. At last however they entered a street which appeared to have no ending. It was illumined by flaring lamps from coster barrows, drawn up beside the pavement, while the night was made hideous by the raucous cries of the vendors of winkles baked potatoes and roasted chestnuts.
"This is Upper Bellington Street, sir," said the cabman, through the shutter. "At what number shall I pull up?"
"Thirteen," Jim replied; "but you will never be able to find it in this crowd. Put me down anywhere here, and I'll look for it myself."
The cabman did as he was directed, and presently Jim found himself making his way along the greasy pavement—which even at that late hour was crowded with pedestrians—in search of the number in question. It was as miserable an evening as ever he could remember. A thin drizzle was falling; the sights and sounds around him were sordid and depressing in the extreme; while the very errand that had brought him to that neighbourhood was of a kind calculated to lower the spirits of the average man to below the mental zero.
After an examination of the numbers of the various houses and shops in the vicinity, he came to the conclusion that Thirteen must be situated at the further end of the street. This proved to be the case. When he reached it, he knocked upon the grimy door, which was immediately opened to him by a police officer.
"What is your name?" asked that official.