I inquired why.
‘Because this little man-hunting job of yours and mine seems on the tip of success. A word from you may settle it.’
I inquired how.
‘Well, sir, could you undertake to identify this Mr. Marsigli if you saw him?’
I answered that I believed I undoubtedly could.
‘Then the affair becomes very simple. Lavender’s luck, sir, Lavender’s luck. So, if you have an hour or two to spare, I will ask you to go with me to a certain humble residence, from the windows of which two of my men are keeping watch on a certain door, in a certain garden-wall, not very many miles from here.’
‘In Chelsea?’ I said—the question surprised out of me by his words, before I had time to consider the wisdom of asking it.
‘Just so, sir—in Chelsea—you’ve hit the right nail on the head.’ And, for all his soothing voice and fatherly smile, the detective’s grey eyes grew uncommonly keen and bright.
‘Pray may I ask, have you any particular interest in a door in a garden-wall giving access to a queerly stowed-away little house in a Chelsea side street?’
Clearly there was nothing for it but to put him in full possession of the facts; at the same time urging him to bear in mind the relation in which the inhabitant of that same queerly stowed-away dwelling stood, or was supposed to stand, to Lord Hartover.