"Then what the deuce do you come banging at my door for?" demanded the other.
"Why, doesn't he live here?"
"No. First-floor front," replied our friend, preparing to close the door.
"Pardon me," said Thorndyke, "but what is Mr. Schönberg like? I mean—"
"Like?" interrupted the resident. "He's like a blooming Sheeny, with a carroty beard and gold gig-lamps!" and, having presented this impressionist sketch, he brought the interview to a definite close by slamming the door and turning the key.
With a wrathful exclamation, the inspector turned towards the stairs, down which the sergeant was already clattering in hot haste, and made his way back to the ground-floor, followed, as before, by Thorndyke and me. On the doorstep we found the sergeant breathlessly interrogating a smartly-dressed youth, whom I had seen alight from a hansom as we entered the house, and who now stood with a notebook tucked under his arm, sharpening a pencil with deliberate care.
"Mr. James saw him come out, sir," said the sergeant. "He turned up towards the Square."
"Did he seem to hurry?" asked the inspector.
"Rather," replied the reporter. "As soon as you were inside, he went off like a lamplighter. You won't catch him now."
"We don't want to catch him," the detective rejoined gruffly; then, backing out of earshot of the eager pressman, he said in a lower tone: "That was Mr. Schönberg, beyond a doubt, and it is clear that he has some reason for making himself scarce; so I shall consider myself justified in opening that note."