IX
The Whitesmith’s Parlour
THERE were few people about in the big hall of the hotel, but amongst them was the principal hall-porter, who, as I came there, appeared to be handing over his duties to his deputy for the night. An idea occurred to me, and I went up to him, drawing him aside.
“You know Mr. Parslewe?” I asked.
“Mr. Parslewe, sir—yes, sir!” he answered.
“Have you seen him go out this evening?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Parslewe went out just about eleven, sir—not many minutes before you came in with the young lady.”
“You haven’t seen him come in again?”
“Not yet, sir—not been in since then.”
I nodded, and went out into the street. So Parslewe’s business, whatever it was, had been fixed for a late hour, after eleven. He might have gone with us to the theatre, then! Unless, indeed, he had been doing other business at the hotel. But it was no use speculating on these things, my job was to do his bidding. And it was not cowardice on my part that I heartily disliked the doing of it. I had no idea as to the whereabouts of the police station. Parslewe had said it was close by, but I did not know in which direction. I might have inquired in the hotel, but I did not wish the hotel people to know that we were or were about to be mixed up with the police; it might have got to Madrasia’s ears before I got back. There were still people in the streets, I could ask my way. And just then, as I might have expected, a policeman came round the corner, and at my question directed me. Parslewe had been quite correct, the place was close at hand.
I went in, wonderingly, having never been in such a building before, and not knowing what to expect, I had no more idea of what a police headquarters was like than of the interior of an Eastern palace, perhaps less. It was all very ordinary, when I got inside; there was a well-lighted office, with a counter, and tables, and desks; three or four policemen stood or sat about, examining papers or writing in books. One of them, seeing me approach the counter and probably noticing my diffident and greenhorn air, got off his stool, put his pen behind his ear, and came across with an almost fatherly solicitude on his fresh-coloured face.