“I protest against you keeping the letter.”
“Very well, I will see that your protest is forwarded to your owners,” replied the Consul; and he handed me the letter, saying—
“Your best course. Doctor, is to return by the Wilson boat to Hull. She sails this afternoon at four. Then go down to Leadenhall Street and, make inquiries—it seems a strange affair, to say the least.”
“It is entirely unaccountable,” I said. “There seems to have been a widespread plot against me, with a single motive—the concealment of the murder of Beryl Wynd.”
“But in that case why not let me telegraph to Scotland Yard?” suggested the Consul, as the sudden idea occurred to him. “They would watch the house until your return. To-day is Tuesday. You’ll be in London on Thursday night, or early on Friday morning.”
The proposal was an excellent one, and I gladly acceded. Next instant, however, the bewildering truth flashed across my mind. I had not hitherto realised my position. My heart sank within me.
“Would that your suggestion could be carried out,” I replied. “But, truth to tell, I don’t know the house, for I took no notice of its situation, and am unable to tell the name of the road.”
“Ah! how extremely unfortunate. London is a big place, and there are thousands of houses that are outwardly the same. Didn’t the servant who called at your surgery give you the address?”
“No; she gave it to the cabman, but I did not catch it. Men of my profession take little heed of the exterior of houses. We make a note of the number in our visiting-books—that’s all.”
“Then you really haven’t any idea of the situation of the house in which the tragedy occurred?”