“Let us forget the arrest for the moment,” said I. “There is plenty to do. Those arms of Polton’s have got to be taken out of the moulds and worked. It will be much better to keep ourselves occupied.”
“I suppose it will,” she agreed; and then, as we turned a corner and came in sight of the studio, she exclaimed: “Why, what on earth is this? There are some painters at work on the studio! I wonder who sent them. I haven’t given any orders. There must be some extraordinary mistake.”
There was not, however. As we came up, one of the two linen-coated operators advanced, brush in hand, to meet us, and briefly explained that he and his mate had been instructed by Superintendent Miller to wash down the paint-work and keep an eye on the premises opposite. They were, in fact, “plain-clothes” men on special duty.
“We have been here since seven o’clock,” our friend informed us, as we made a pretence of examining the window-sashes, “and we took over from a man who had been watching the house all night. My nabs is there all right. He came home early yesterday evening, and he hasn’t come out since.”
“Then you know the man by sight?” Marion asked eagerly.
“Well, Miss,” was the reply, “we have a description of him, and the man who went into the house seemed to agree with it; and, as far as we know, there isn’t any other man living there. But I understand that we are relying on Dr. Gray to establish the identity. Could I have a look at the inside woodwork?”
Marion unlocked the door and we entered, followed by the detective, whose interest seemed to be concerned exclusively with the woodwork of windows; and from windows in general finally became concentrated on a small window in the lobby which commanded a view of the houses opposite. Having examined the sashes of this, with his eye cocked on one of the houses aforesaid, he proceeded to operate on it with his brush, which, being wet and dirty and used with a singular lack of care, soon covered the glass so completely with a mass of opaque smears that it was impossible to see through it at all. Then he cautiously raised the sash about an inch, and, whipping out a prism binocular from under his apron, stood back a couple of feet and took a leisurely survey through the narrow opening of one of the opposite houses.
“Hallo!” said he. “There is a woman visible at the first-floor window. Just have a look at her, sir. She can’t see us through this narrow crack.”
He handed me the glass, indicating the house, and I put the instrument to my eyes. It was a powerful glass, and seemed to bring the window and the figure of the woman within a dozen feet of me. But at the moment she had turned her head away, apparently to speak to some one inside the room, and all that I could see was that she seemed to be an elderly woman who wore what looked like an old-fashioned widow’s cap. Suddenly she turned and looked out over the half-curtain, giving me a perfectly clear view of her face, and then I felt myself lapsing into the old sense of confusion and bewilderment.
I had, of course, expected to recognize Mrs. Morris. But this was evidently not she, although not such a very different-looking woman: an elderly, white-haired widow in a crape cap and spectacles—reading spectacles they must be, since she was looking over and not through them. She seemed to be a stranger—and not yet quite a stranger, for as I looked at her some chord of memory stirred. But the cup of my confusion was not yet full. As I stared at her, trying vainly to sound a clearer note on that chord of memory, a man slowly emerged from the darkness of the room behind and stood beside her, and him I recognized instantly as the bottle-nosed person whom I had watched from my ambush at the top of Dartmouth-Park-Hill.