“’Twas near Cow Cross.”
“Cow Cross! Where in the name of wonder is Cow Cross?”
“Up towards Smithfield. Islington way.”
“You give me the address, Stephen Radcliffe. I insist upon knowing it. Johnny, you can see—take it down. If I don’t verify this matter to my satisfaction, Mr. Radcliffe, I’ll have you up publicly to answer for it.”
Stephen took an old pocket-book out of his coat, went to the window to catch what little light came in, and ran his finger down the leaves.
“Gibraltar Terrace, Islington district,” read he. “That was all the address I ever knew it by.”
“Gibraltar Terrace, Islington district,” repeated the pater. “Take it down, Johnny—here’s the back of an old letter. And now, Mr. Radcliffe, will you go with me to London?”
“No. I’ll be hanged if I do.”
“I mean to come to the bottom of this, I can tell you. You shan’t play these tricks on honest people with impunity.”
“Why, what do you suspect?” roared Stephen. “Do you think I murdered him?”