‘This is the house!’ repeated Mr Holt, showing more signs of life than I had hitherto seen in him.
Sydney looked it up and down,—it apparently appealed to his aesthetic sense as little as it did to mine.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am certain.’
‘It seems empty.’
‘It seemed empty to me that night,—that is why I got into it in search of shelter.’
‘Which is the window which served you as a door?’
‘This one.’ Mr Holt pointed to the window on the ground floor,—the one which was screened by a blind. ‘There was no sign of a blind when I first saw it, and the sash was up,—it was that which caught my eye.’
Once more Sydney surveyed the place, in comprehensive fashion, from roof to basement,—then he scrutinisingly regarded Mr Holt.
‘You are quite sure this is the house? It might be awkward if you proved mistaken. I am going to knock at the door, and if it turns out that that mysterious acquaintance of yours does not, and never has lived here, we might find an explanation difficult.’