"I think I can find it," was Colin's answer. He slowed down a little and glanced back over his shoulder. "We go through Barking and Rainham, don't we?"
The sergeant, who was sitting up stiffly alongside of Joe, nodded his head.
"That's right, sir. It's practically a straight road from there to South Ockendon."
They drove on silently through the crowded streets, the Inspector making no further attempt to talk, and Colin devoting his whole attention to the strenuous work of avoiding the traffic.
After negotiating the apparently interminable length of the Commercial Road and the East India Dock Road, they made their way through the squalid region of East Ham and emerged at last into the historic if evil-smelling neighbourhood of Barking.
Then, bit by bit, the houses began to give place to stunted hedges and low-lying fields, while a little distance away on the right the red and green lights of the steamers passing up and down the Thames flashed out mysteriously in the gathering dusk.
Two miles of rapid driving brought them to the straggling village of Rainham, and, checking his speed a trifle as they ran through the main street, Colin swung out on to a lone stretch of country road, where except for one or two farm carts and an occasional belated cyclist, they seemed to be the only travellers.
He had covered about another three miles when, with a sudden movement, the sergeant leaned over from the back.
"We're getting pretty near now, sir," he observed. "If your information's right, the house we want ought to be somewhere about here."
Colin slackened down, and as he did so the bent figure of an old man, with a pitchfork over his shoulder, suddenly loomed into view out of an adjoining gateway.