Beresford pushed away the deed-box and held out his hand.
"I promise," he said.
It was a wet, starless night when we arrived in Milford Square at ten o'clock. I dismissed my taxi, rang the bell and waited. There was no answer, and I rang again. It was inconceivable that, to keep me out of the house, Grayle had disconnected the front door bell or given instructions that it was to be disregarded on principle.
"I'm afraid I've brought you on a fool's errand," I said to Beresford, as I rang a third time.
We looked to right and left for a second bell, an area door or any other promise of admission. Two interested maids from a neighbouring house joined our search-party, and a constable flashed his bull's-eye impartially on us all and asked if we had lost anything.
"I'm trying to get into this house," I said, pointing to Grayle's door, "and I can't make anyone hear."
He pondered for a moment and then led us into the Brompton Road.
"There was a light in the studio, when I came on duty. You may be able to get in that way."
We groped through a narrow passage to a wooden door set in a high brick wall. Over our heads I could see the outline of two windows, securely curtained but with a phosphorescent border. There was neither bell nor knocker to the door, but I battered resonantly on the thick, blistered panels with my umbrella. For perhaps two minutes there was no answering sound, and I banged again. This time I was rewarded by the slam of a door, the noise of feet on a stone passage and the rasp of a heavy key. The door opened, and my eyes, which were grown used by now to the darkness, recognised the massive outlines of Guy Bannerman.
"Hullo? Who are you? What d'you want?" he demanded sharply.