It was now half-past two in the morning. I’d missed the 12:15 back to Brixton slap bang pop hours ago, so I thought I might just as well make a night of it. We jumped into our overcoats and hats, and hurried to Fleet Street. We walked towards the Strand until we found a four-wheeler. We then drove to No. 23, Walpole Street.
The clocks struck three as the Reverend paid the cab.
“Hullo!” said he. “Why, there’s a light in Cloyster’s sitting-room. He can’t have gone to bed yet. His late hours save us a great deal of trouble.” And he went up the two or three steps which led to the front door.
A glance at Tom Blake showed me that the barge-driver was alarmed. He looked solemn and did not speak. I felt funny, too. Like when I first handed round the collection-plate in our parish church. Sort of empty feeling.
But the Reverend was all there, spry and business-like.
He leaned over the area railing and gave three short, sharp taps on the ground floor window with his walking-stick.
Behind the lighted blind appeared the shadow of a man’s figure.
“It’s he!” “It’s him!” came respectively and simultaneously from the Reverend and myself.
After a bit of waiting the latch clicked and the door opened. The door was opened by Mr. Cloyster himself. He was in evening dress and hysterics. I thought I had heard a rummy sound from the other side of the door. Couldn’t account for it at the time. Must have been him laughing.
At the sight of us he tried to pull himself together. He half succeeded after a bit, and asked us to come in.