That they would not return again to that house of horror in Bayswater seemed certain.
Towards one o’clock we took a taxi off the stand outside White’s and drove to Porchester Terrace, alighting some distance from our destination. We passed the constable strolling slowly in the opposite direction, and when at last we gained the rusty iron gate we both slipped inside, quietly and unobserved.
The street lamp in the vicinity lit up the front of the dingy house, therefore fearing observation from any of the servants next door, we moved noiselessly in the shadow of the bushes along the side of the premises, past a small conservatory, many panes of glass of which were broken, and so into the darkness of the small back garden, which seemed knee-deep in grass and weeds, and which, from its position, hemmed in by blank walls, could not be overlooked save from the house itself.
All was silence. The scene was weird in the extreme. In the distance could be heard the faint hum of the never-ceasing traffic of London. Above, showed the dark windows of that grim old place wherein I had so nearly lost my life.
“I want to examine this garden thoroughly,” I whispered to Jack, and then I switched on my torch and showed a light around. A tangle of weeds and undergrowth was revealed—a tangle so great that to penetrate it without the use of a bill-hook appeared impossible.
Still we went forward, examining everywhere with our powerful electric lights.
“What will the people say?” laughed Jack. “They’ll take us for burglars, old chap!”
“The place is empty,” I replied. “Our only fear is of the police. To them we would be compelled to make an explanation—and that’s just what I don’t want to do.”