The Commercial Road was deserted when Harrison Smith came out of the narrow byway. The chance of finding a conveyance was small but his practical sense suggested turning into the West India Dock Road where, at the gates of the dock, he had the good fortune to secure a dilapidated four-wheeler. Progress was painfully slow and hours seemed to pass before they finally turned out of the broad cobbled highway and passed through the silent empty city. Two o'clock was striking when he dismissed the cab in Piccadilly. At his own rooms in Crown Court, St. James's, he changed into ordinary clothes and proceeded on foot to Albemarle Street. Before the entrance to Crest Chambers Harrison Smith stopped and broke into a torrent of imprecation. He had forgotten that the downstairs door would be shut. It was of heavy mahogany and secured by an ordinary variety of lock against which the bunch of keys in his pocket were of no service whatsoever. He was shaking his fist angrily when the sound of footsteps accompanied by a snatch of song attracted his attention. A young man in evening dress, wearing an opera hat at a raffish angle and carrying his hands in his trousers pockets turned out of the adjoining side street and approached the spot where he was standing. A single glance was enough to convince Harrison Smith that the young man was in a state of spiritual exaltation bordering on ecstasy. The words of a song he sang sounded unnaturally clear—like music from another planet.
"I'm one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit," he sang over and over again as though the words contained relish enough to justify any limit of repetition. Coming abreast of Harrison Smith he halted abruptly and, rocking on his heels, broke into a cherubic smile.
"Goo' man," he said. "Les-see, it's ol' Petersh, ishn't it?"
"That's it," said Harrison Smith, "old Peters."
With startling suddenness the young man produced a latch key and thrust it into Harrison Smith's palm.
"Ope' th' door, ol' top. Ope' door an' we'll have a quick lil' spot together."
Here was unlooked for good fortune of which Harrison Smith lost no time in availing himself. Lending a trifling support to his impromptu host they entered the building and ascended in the electric lift to the fourth floor. There was a brass plate on the front door which informed the curious that the owner of the flat was called Royston.
"Just a quick one," said Smith as they entered a comfortable sitting room adorned by photographs of lovely ladies. "I've had a trying day and want to turn in."
"T'hell with that," said Royston. "Wha's matter with seein' in the dawn?"
He produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses—not without casualties among their fellows—set them on a coffin stool and fell into a deep arm chair.