“Thus,” he moralized, “does commerce subserve the ends of justice—at least, we hope it does,” he added quickly, as Miller disappeared into the semi-basement of the buildings.
We met the detective returning from his quest as we entered the building.
“No go there,” was his report. “We’ll try the next floor.”
This was the ground-floor, or it might be considered the first floor. At any rate, it yielded nothing of interest, and, after a glance at the doors that opened on the landing, he strode briskly up the stone stairs. The next floor was equally unrewarding, for our eager inspection disclosed nothing but the gaping keyhole associated with the common type of night-latch.
“What name was you wanting?” inquired a dusty knight of industry who emerged from one of the flats.
“Muggs,” replied Miller, with admirable promptness.
“Don’t know ’im,” said the workman. “I expect it’s farther up.”
Farther up we accordingly went, but still from each door the artless grin of the invariable keyhole saluted us with depressing monotony. I began to grow uneasy, and when the fourth floor had been explored with no better result, my anxiety became acute. A mare’s nest may be an interesting curiosity, but it brings no kudos to its discoverer.
“I suppose you haven’t made any mistake, sir?” said Miller, stopping to wipe his brow.
“It’s quite likely that I have,” replied Thorndyke, with unmoved composure. “I only proposed this search as a tentative proceeding, you know.”