Half-an-hour's walk brought him to the Palace, a gaudy structure wedged in between two public houses. The only person about who appeared to have any connection with the establishment was an elderly man with a bucket of paste, who was leisurely engaged in affixing a poster to one of the two boards which decorated each side of the entrance.
Colin pulled up alongside of him.
"Do you happen to know where Joe Bates lives?" he asked.
The other paused in his work, and eyed him with some suspicion.
"Yus," he replied, "an' wot abaht it?"
"Nothing much," returned Colin. "I happen to be a pal of his, and I want to see him. My name's Doctor Gray."
The elderly man's expression changed instantly. "Ow," he remarked, "that's orl right. I've 'eard 'im speak o' you. You're the bloke as mended 'im up when 'e was in 'orspital? Thinks the world o' you, Joe does, an' no error."
"Well, in that case," said Colin, "perhaps you will trust me with his address?"
"Why, o' course," was the answer. "No offence, mister, but I didn't know who you was when you come askin' fust. Might 'a' been one o' these 'ere blarsted rate collectors." He laid down his brush, and, stepping out on the pavement, pointed across toward a narrow turning on the opposite side of the road. "You foller that," he said, "an' when you come to the last 'ouse on the right jest give a couple o' taps on the front winder."
Colin thanked him, and, crossing the street, made his way down the alley in question, until he arrived at the farther end. Joe's residence proved to be a single-fronted dwelling of grimy brick, the ground floor window of which opened on to the street. A square of not over-clean muslin had been nailed up inside, in order to secure the owner's privacy, but at Colin's second knock this obstruction was cautiously lifted, and Joe's face peered out inquiringly through the dirty glass.