Try yourself a day at the corner of a London street awaiting the arrival of a person you have never seen, but whose description has been given to you, and you will at once discover how wearisome a task it is. Hundreds of men nearly answering the description will pass you, and your hopes are raised as every one approaches.
Still, I intended to outwit this clever adventurer, whoever he was. He, or his accomplices, had obtained possession of at least one object that was my property, the document with the seven signatures, and I intended that he should be hoist by his own petard even though I had to wait for him a year.
The servant girl was entirely in my confidence. Each morning as she “did” the steps I passed the time of day with her, and she informed me that Mr. Purvis had not called, although her mistress was expecting him, as letters were awaiting him.
Now, it seemed to me probable that if Mrs. Graham knew the man’s address, and he did not fetch his letters, she would either send him a line or re-address the correspondence. Therefore, I gave instructions to the girl to be on the lookout for the address on any letter she might be sent to post, and make a note of it for me.
One afternoon about five o’clock, while I was hastily taking a cup of tea in a shop in King’s Cross Road, my friend the constable put his head inside and beckoned me out.
“The cove you’re waiting for has just gone into No. 7, sir,” he said; “tall, fair moustache, freckled face, and wearin’ a straw hat.”
In an instant I was on the alert and, full of excitement, walked back with him to the corner of Calthorpe Street.
“You’re going to follow him, I suppose?”
“Certainly. I want to discover where he lives.”
“Does he know you?”