The porter favoured me with a doubtful glance.
“Mrs. Peddar lives at the top of the building. She’s in bed long ago.”
“So I suppose. I’m afraid, however, that I shall have to wake her up again, as I am in urgent need of her assistance.”
“Anything wrong, sir?”
“No. At least nothing in which you could be of service.”
As we mounted I could see that Turner—the night porter’s name is Turner—was wondering what possible business I could have with Mrs. Peddar that I should rouse her out of her warm bed at that hour of the night. It occurred to me to ask him a question or two.
“Has a lady come up lately?”
“Up where?”
“Up to the first floor—or anywhere?” He shook his head. “You’re sure?”
“Certain. No lady’s come into this building for a good two hours, at any rate. The last was Mrs. Sabin; she and her husband’s on the fourth floor. They’ve been to the Gaiety Theatre: I took ’em up in the lift. She was the last lady as came in, and that was just after eleven.”