"It's a private matter," he explained. "Yes, I know that Mr. Hawker has just been arrested and taken away. District detectives did that—they were onto him for some breach of the law. I was after him myself, with a Scotland Yard warrant, but I arrived too late, unfortunately."
"Then what do you want?" grumbled the woman.
"I want to search Hawker's room for some papers which I believe he hid there. If I find them you shall be rewarded."
Mrs. Miggs relaxed visibly. She had a wholesome respect for the police, and she did not doubt that Nevill was other than he purported to be—a Scotland Yard officer. She let him into the hall and closed the door.
"You can come up," she said ungraciously, "but I don't think there's anything there."
She lighted a candle and guided Nevill upstairs. He could scarcely restrain his excitement as he entered the little room. He glanced keenly about, noting the half-empty bottle of stout and the dirty glass.
"Did the police search here?" he inquired.
"Of course they did, but they didn't find nothin', 'cause there wasn't anything to find. 'Awker was as poor as Job!"
"They examined his person?—his clothes, I mean?"
"Yes, an' all they got was a knife, and a pistol, and some loose silver and coppers."