Turner continued:
“He went up about an hour ago: perhaps a little more. He’d got no parcel then. I stared when I saw he’d got one when he came back. I shouldn’t have thought he was the kind to carry a parcel, and especially such a one. I’d have called him a cab if he’d given me a chance, but I was just starting with Mr. Maynard, and he was off like a shot. Shall I wait for you, sir? The first door round the corner is Mrs. Peddar’s.”
I told him not to wait, feeling conscious that it might take me some time to explain to Mrs. Peddar what I desired of her. The lady must have been a light sleeper. Hardly had I saluted the panel of the door with my knuckles than a voice inquired who was there. When I informed her she made a prompt appearance in her dressing-gown.
“You, Mr. Ferguson! What do you want at this hour of the night?”
I immediately became conscious that it might be even more difficult to explain than I had supposed.
“I have a visitor downstairs, Mrs. Peddar.”
“A visitor? Well? What has that to do with me? You can’t have anything to eat at this time of night.”
She said that, I take it, because in the Mansions meals are provided for residents, and she supposed that I had dragged her out of bed at that unholy hour in search of food.
“The visitor is a lady, and I wanted to know if you could give her a bed somewhere to-night.”
“A bed? Who is the lady?”