"Come with me," said he; "I think I know a person who may have the address." He got into the taxi again with the other, gave the Harley Street address, and they drove off. The horrible irregularity of the whole of this business was poisoning Brownlow's mind—hunting for the head of a firm who ought to be at his office and who held possession of a client's vitally important document.
He said nothing, neither did Mr. Tidd, who was probably engaged in reviewing the facts of his case and the position his wife would take up when that letter was put into her hands by Mrs. Renshaw.
They stopped at 110A, Harley Street.
"Why, it's a doctor's house," said Tidd.
"Yes," said Brownlow.
They knocked at the door and were let in.
The servant, in the absence of an appointment, said he would see what he could do, and showed them into the waiting-room.
"Tell Dr. Oppenshaw it is Mr. Brownlow from Mr. Pettigrew's office," said Brownlow, "on very urgent business."
They took their seats, and while Mr. Tidd tried to read a volume of Punch upside down, Brownlow bit his nails.
In a marvellously short time the servant returned and asked Mr. Brownlow to step in.