The cab pulled up in front of a tumbledown cheap ‘villa’ in an unfinished cheap neighbourhood,—the whole place a living monument of the defeat of the speculative builder.
Atherton leaped out on to the grass-grown rubble which was meant for a footpath.
‘I don’t see Marjorie looking for me on the doorstep.’
Nor did I,—I saw nothing but what appeared to be an unoccupied ramshackle brick abomination. Suddenly Sydney gave an exclamation.
‘Hullo!—The front door’s closed!’
I was hard at his heels.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why, when I went I left the front door open. It looks as if I’ve made an idiot of myself after all, and Marjorie’s returned,—let’s hope to goodness that I have.’
He knocked. While we waited for a response I questioned him.
‘Why did you leave the door open when you went?’