"Was the friend an Englishman?"
"Yes."
"What's his name?"
"Mr. Hargrove."
"Where does he live?"
"At No. 92 in this street."
"One word more: had that old doctor been attending him long?"
"No. I did not know him. He came on the evening when M. Lavernoux was taken ill."
Without another word, Lupin dragged me away once more, ran down the stairs and, once in the street, turned to the right, which took us past my flat again. Four doors further, he stopped at No. 92, a small, low-storied house, of which the ground-floor was occupied by the proprietor of a dram-shop, who stood smoking in his doorway, next to the entrance-passage. Lupin asked if Mr. Hargrove was at home.
"Mr. Hargrove went out about half-an-hour ago," said the publican. "He seemed very much excited and took a taxi-cab, a thing he doesn't often do."