“I shall do nothing without full consideration, depend upon it. Statham refused his assistance, therefore we must act for ourselves.”
“How? Where shall we begin?” asked Max.
His friend raised his palms in a gesture of bewilderment.
“Look here, Charlie,” said the other in a confidential tone. “Has it not occurred to you that there may be a method in old Statham’s eccentricity regarding that house of his. Now tell me, what do you know of its interior? Let’s be frank with each other. You have lost both your sister and the woman you adored, while I have lost Marion, my well-beloved. Let us act together. During these past weeks I’ve been thinking deeply regarding the mystery of that house in Park Lane.”
“So have I, many times. I only know the ground floor and basement. I have never ascended the stairs, through that white-enamelled iron door concealed by the one of green baize.”
“Where does old Levi sleep?”
“In a room at the back of the kitchen—when he sleeps at all. He’s like a watch-dog, on the alert always for the slightest sound.”
Max paused for a moment before making any further remark. Then he said in a quiet voice:
“There are some very queer stories afloat concerning that place, Charlie.”
“I know. I’ve heard them—about mysterious people who enter there at night—and don’t come forth again. But I don’t believe them. Old Sam has earned a reputation for being eccentric, and his enemies have tacked on all sorts of sensational fictions.”