Stretton Street was essentially one inhabited by the highest in London society. I had passed through it many times—as a Londoner does in making short cuts—without even noticing the name. The Londoner’s geography is usually only by the landmarks of street corners and “tube” stations.
As I hurried along through the rain, I suddenly heard a man’s voice behind me say:
“Excuse me, sir! But may I speak to you for just one second?”
I turned, and as I halted, a bare-headed young man-servant in livery, with waistcoat of striped black-and-yellow, faced me.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he exclaimed breathlessly, “but will you wait just a moment?”
“What do you want?” I asked, surprised at being thus accosted.
“Would you oblige my master, sir?” inquired the young man eagerly. “He is in some very great trouble. Only a moment, sir. Just come in and see him. Do. Poor fellow! he’s in great trouble. Do come in and see him, sir,” he begged.
Amazed at this appeal, and my curiosity aroused, I consented, and followed the man back to a great stone-built mansion about fifty yards away. The front door in its deep portico stood open, just as the servant had left it when, apparently, he had dashed out into the street to accost the first passer-by.
“I’m sure my master will be most grateful to you, sir,” the young footman said as I crossed the threshold.
We passed through a large square hall and up a great flight of softly-carpeted stairs to the library on the first floor—a big, sombre room, lined with books from floor to ceiling—evidently the den of a studious man.