“It is, sir.”
“Come on then, you can take me to Howland Street, and if you can identify the house I will give you something over your fare.”
The cabman followed the detective to the street, where his cab was waiting.
Freyberger got in, the man got on the box, and they drove off.
That a millionaire of Gyde’s somewhat dubious moral character should have a second house in London, the address of which was not printed on his visiting cards, was not at all an out-of-the-way fact. Yet one might have thought he would have chosen a more cheerful neighbourhood than Howland Street.
About the middle of the thoroughfare the cab drew up.
“That is the place, sir,” said the man, pointing to a gaunt, grimy-looking house standing by one that had been new painted. “That is the house, if I’m not very much mistaken.”
“Wait for me,” said Freyberger. He knocked at the door.
The door, the knocker, the bell-pulls, all were in the last stage of neglect, an old rug hung over the area railings and a milk can stood on the step.
The door opened after he had knocked several times and rung twice.