“Anybody else on this same story?” I asked.
“Just a Mr. Cragent, thank you, sir, who has a workshop across the way. He’s out for good to-day, but he’s been in and out quite a bit the few days he’s been there, thank you, sir. I think he’ll make you no trouble, sir.”
I looked at Tom and Dorothy, who signed affirmatively. “I’ll take it,” I said. “Shall I have to see the agent?”
“No, sir, thank you,” answered the man, “I’m the acting agent for this one building.”
“Very well, then. Here you are.” I handed over four pounds for the first month’s rent, and turned back to survey my new found quarters more carefully. It was evidently one of two front rooms looking out on the street. The other front room with the rooms in the wing which stretched back must belong to the mysterious Cragent. Sullied with fog and smoke, our place was a typical London office, whose gray marble mantel and grate was the only relief to the naked walls.
The janitor, without a sign of wonder at our sudden invasion of his premises, turned with his broom and clanged down the iron stairs. Tom, Dorothy and I went inside and nearly closed the door, leaving it open a crack for the purpose of observation.
“As long as we may have to be here off and on for a week or more, we may just as well be comfortable about it,” said Tom, in a low tone. “Two of us can stay here, while the other one goes and gets some chairs and a little coal. You and Dorothy keep on the lookout, while I get enough furnishings to make us comfortable for a few hours.”
“Sure thing,” I said, my heart leaping up at the chance of a short tête-à-tête with Dorothy.
“I’m going with you, Tom,” said Dorothy. “Jim can watch alone, all right,” and she started out on the landing ahead of her brother.
Tom threw one glance at me. “See you shortly,” he said, and followed. I resumed my place of watching.