“Is Mr. Bampton in?” asked Harley.
“Yus, just come in. I'm cookin' his supper.”
“Tell him that two friends of his have called on rather important business.”
“All right,” said the black-faced one. “What name is it?”
“No name. Just say two friends of his.”
Treating us to a long, vacant stare and leaving us standing on the step, the maid (in whose hand I perceived a greasy fork) shuffled along the passage and began to mount the stairs. An unmistakable odour of frying sausages now reached my nostrils. Harley glanced at me quizzically, but said nothing until the Cinderella came stumbling downstairs again. Without returning to where we stood:
“Go up,” she directed. “Second floor, front. Shut the door, one of yer.”
She disappeared into gloomy depths below as Harley and I, closing the door behind us, proceeded to avail ourselves of the invitation. There was very little light on the staircase, but we managed to find our way to a poorly furnished bed-sitting-room where a small table was spread for a meal. Beside the table, in a chintz-covered arm-chair, a thick-set young man was seated smoking a cigarette and having a copy of the Daily Telegraph upon his knees.
He was a very typical lower middle-class, nothing-in-particular young man, but there was a certain truculence indicated by his square jaw, and that sort of self-possession which sometimes accompanies physical strength was evidenced in his manner as, tossing the paper aside, he stood up.
“Good evening, Mr. Bampton,” said Harley genially. “I take it”—pointing to the newspaper—“that you are looking for a new job?”