"No doubt," agreed Robmore dryly. "By special delivery, eh? And when it gets to Southampton Station, it's got to be taken to the head post office, hasn't it?"
"Well?" asked Hetherwick.
"There's many a slip twixt cup and lip—so the old saying goes," replied Robmore. "That parcel may slip. But isn't this the number your clerk mentioned?"
The door of Mrs. Mallett's house looked more closely barred than ever—if possible. And no answer came to several summonses by bell and knocker. But presently Robmore tried the handle—the door opened at his touch.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed. "Open! Um! That seems a bit queer. Well—inside!"
For the second time that afternoon, Hetherwick walked into a place that seemed to be wholly deserted.
CHAPTER XXVI
WATERLOO
The detective, walking a little in advance of his companion, stepped forward to a hall-table and knocked loudly on its polished surface. No answer came. He went further along, to the head of a railed stair which evidently communicated with a cellar kitchen; again he knocked, more loudly than before, on an adjacent panel, and again got no reply. And at that, turning back along the hall, he opened the door of the room which faced upon the street, and he and Hetherwick looked in. A musty-smelling, close-curtained room that, a sort of Sunday parlour, little used, cold and comfortless in its formality. But the room behind it, to which Robmore turned next, showed signs of recent occupancy and life. There was a fire in the grate, with an easy chair drawn near to it; on the table close by lay women's gear—a heap of linen, with needle and thread thrust in, a work-basket, scissors, thimble; it required no more than a glance to see that the owner of these innocent matters had laid them down suddenly, suddenly interrupted in her task.