“Do you know if Lanky Lane ever had visitors here—I mean visitors not of his own class?”
“I never ’eard of none. Lanky wasn’t the sort o’ chap to trouble about callers. He used to spend ’is nights in the Three Nuns wiv us; but he’d sit ’ours over two o’ gin. ’E saved ’is money, ’e did.”
“But look here,” exclaimed Ambler, seriously. “Are you quite certain that you’ve never seen him with any stranger at nights?”
“Never to my knowledge.”
“Well,” my companion said, “you’d better go and call the police.”
When the old fellow had shuffled away down the rickety stairs, Ambler, turning to me, said abruptly:
“That fellow is lying; he knows something about this affair.”
I had taken up the empty dram bottle and smelt it. The spirit it had contained was rum—which had evidently been drunk from the bottle, as there was no glass near. A slight quantity remained, and this I placed aside for analysis if necessary.
“I can’t see what this poor fellow has to do with the inquiry upon which we are engaged, Ambler,” I remarked. “I do wish you’d be more explicit. Mystery seems to heap upon mystery.”
“Yes. You’re right,” he said reflectively. “Slowly—very slowly, I am working out the problem, Ralph. It has been a long and difficult matter; but by degrees I seem to be drawing towards a conclusion. This,” and he pointed to the man lying dead, “is another of London’s many mysteries, but it carries us one step further.”