"Why d'ye mean to do?" asked Drayton.
"To get him here."
"How'll ye track him? He's gone to London, ain't he? That's a big haystack to find a needle in, ain't it?"
"London is not a haystack, Mr. Drayton. It's a honey-comb, and every cell is labeled. On getting out of the train at St. Pancras Station they will either hire a cab or they will not. If they hire one, then the number will be taken at the lodge. By that number the cabman can be found. He will know where he drove his fare. If my brother left his wife at one place, and settled himself at another, the cabman will know that also. If they do not hire a cab, then, as the hour is late, and one of them is a lady, they must be somewhere in the vicinity of the station. Thus, in that vast honey-comb, their particular cells are already marked out for us. That's enough for the present. Who sleep in this house beside yourselves—and the girl?"
"Nobody but a lad—a pot-boy."
"Where is he now—in bed?"
"Four hours agone."
"Where does he sleep?"
"Up in the attic."
"Don't let that lad see you. On which side of the house does the attic lie?"