In pretence that I wanted a house I allowed him to select three for me, and while doing so learnt some further particulars regarding the dark house in Porchester Terrace. As far as he knew, the story of Mrs. Carpenter’s relatives taking secret possession was a myth.
The caretaker had been withdrawn two years ago, and the place simply locked up and left. If burglars broke in, there was nothing of value for them to take, he added.
Thus the result of my inquiries went to confirm my suspicion that the ingenious pair of malefactors had taken possession of the place temporarily, in order to pursue their nefarious plans.
There was a garden at the rear. Might it not also be the grave wherein the bodies of their innocent victims were interred?
That afternoon, at four, I met Jack Marlowe in White’s, and as we sat in our big arm-chairs gazing through the windows out into the sunshine of St. James’s Street, I asked him whether he would be prepared to accompany me upon an adventurous visit to a house in Bayswater.
The long-legged, clean-shaven, clean-limbed fellow with the fairish hair and merry grey eyes looked askance for a moment, and then inquired—
“What’s up, old man? What’s the game?” He was always eager for an adventure, I knew.
“Well, the fact is I want to look around a house in Porchester Terrace, that’s all. I want to search the garden when nobody’s about.”
“Why?”
“In order to satisfy myself about something.”