Where I had seen the man before I could not remember. But his face was certainly familiar.
When we left him and continued along the busy thoroughfare of cheap shops and itinerant vendors I asked my friend who he was, to which he merely replied:
“Well, he’s a man who knows something of the affair. I’ll explain later. In the meantime come with me to Gray’s Inn Road. I have to make a call there,” and he hailed a hansom, into which we mounted.
Twenty minutes later we alighted before a dingy-looking barber’s shop and inquired for Mr. Harding—an assistant who was at that moment shaving a customer of the working class. It was a house where one could be shaved for a penny, but where the toilet accessories were somewhat primitive.
While I stood on the threshold Ambler Jevons asked the barber’s assistant if he had ever worked at Curtis’s, and if, while there, he knew a man whose photograph he showed him.
“Yes, sir,” answered the barber, without a moment’s hesitation. “That’s Mr. Slade. He was a very good customer, and Mr. Curtis used always to attend on him himself.”
“Slade, you say, is his name?” repeated my friend.
“Yes, sir.”
Then, thanking him, we re-entered the cab and drove to an address in a street off Shaftesbury Avenue.
“Slade! Slade!” repeated Ambler Jevons to himself as we drove along. “That’s the name I’ve been in search of for weeks. If I am successful I believe the Seven Secrets will resolve themselves into one of the most remarkable conspiracies of modern times. I must, however, make this call alone, Ralph. The presence of a second person may possibly prevent the man I’m going to see from making a full and straightforward statement. We must not risk failure in this inquiry, for I anticipate that it may give us the key to the whole situation. There’s a bar opposite the Palace Theatre. I’ll set you down there, and you can wait for me. You don’t mind, do you?”