The chauffeur did the run to Whitechapel Road in unusually good time; it was little more than two o’clock when the car passed the parish church. But the man had gone from one end of the road to the other, from the end of High Street to the beginning of Mile End Road, without success, when he stopped and looked in at his passenger.
“Can’t see no street of that name on either side, Mr. Viner,” he said. “Have you got it right, sir?”
“That’s the name given me,” answered Viner. He pointed to a policeman slowly patrolling the side walk. “Ask him,” he said. “He’ll know.”
The policeman, duly questioned, seemed surprised at first; then recollection evidently awoke in him.
“Mirrypoor Street?” he said. “Oh, yes! Second to your left, third to the right—nice sort o’ street for a car like yours to go into, too!”
Viner overheard this and put his head out of the window.
“Why?” he demanded.
The policeman, quick to recognize a superior person, touched his helmet and stepped off the curb toward his questioner.
“Pretty low quarter down there, sir,” he said, with a significant glance in the direction concerned. “If you’ve business that way, I should advise you to look after yourself—some queer places down those streets, sir.”
“Thanks,” responded Viner with a grim smile. “Go on, driver, as quick as you can, and stop at the corner of the street.”
The car swung out of Whitechapel Road into a long, dismal street, the shabbiness of which increased the further the main thoroughfare was left behind; and Viner, looking right and left, saw that the small streets running off that which he was traversing were still more dismal, still more shabby. Suddenly the car twisted to the right and stopped, and Viner was aware of a long, narrow street, more gloomy than the rest, wherein various doubtful-looking individuals moved about, and groups of poorly clad children played in the gutters.
“All right,” he said as he got down from the car, and the chauffeur made a grimace at the unlovely vista. “Look here—I don’t want you to wait here. Go back to Whitechapel Road and hang about the end of the street we’ve just come down. I’ll come back there to you.”
“Not afraid of going down here alone, then, sir?” asked the chauffeur. “It’s a bit as that policeman said.”
“I’m all right,” repeated Viner. “You go back and wait. I may be some time. I mayn’t be long.”
He turned away down the street—and in spite of his declaration, he felt that this was certainly the most doubtful place he had ever been in. There were evil and sinister faces on the sidewalks; evil and sinister eyes looking out of dirty windows; here and there a silent-footed figure went by him in the gloom of the December day with the soft step of a wild animal; here and there, men leaning against the wall, glared suspiciously at him or fixed rapacious eyes on his good clothes. There were shops in this street such as Viner had never seen the like of—shops wherein coarse, dreadful looking food was exposed for sale; and there were public-houses from which came the odour of cheap gin and bad beer and rank tobacco; an atmosphere of fried fish and something far worse hung heavily above the dirty pavements, and at every step he took Viner asked himself the same question—what on earth could Miss Wickham and Mrs. Killenhall be doing in this wretched neighbourhood?
Suddenly he came to the house he wanted—Number 23. It was just like all the other houses, of sombre grey brick, except for the fact that it looked somewhat cleaner than the rest, was furnished with blinds and curtains, and in the front downstairs window had a lower wire blind, on which was worked in tarnished gilt letters, the word Surgery. On the door was a brass plate, also tarnished, across which ran three lines in black:
Dr. Martincole.
Attendance: 3 to 6 p.m.
Saturdays. 5 to 9:30 p.m.
Before Viner took the bell in hand, he glanced at the houses which flanked this East-end surgery. One was a poor-looking, meanly equipped chemist’s shop; the other a secondhand clothing establishment. And comforting himself with the thought that if need arose the apparently fairly respectable proprietors of these places might reasonably be called upon for assistance, he rang the bell of Number 23 and awaited the opening of the door with considerable curiosity.
The door was opened by Mrs. Killenhall herself, and Viner’s quick eye failed to notice anything in her air or manner that denoted uneasiness. She smiled and motioned him to enter, shutting the door after him as he stepped into the narrow entrance hall.
“So very good of you to come, Mr. Viner, and so quickly,” she said. “You found your way all right?”
“Yes, but I’m a good deal surprised to find you and Miss Wickham in this neighbourhood,” answered Viner. “This is a queer place, Mrs. Killenhall. I hope—”
“Oh, we’re all right!” said Mrs. Killenhall, with a reassuring smile. “It is certainly a queer neighbourhood, but Dr. Martincole is an old friend of mine, and we’re safe enough under his roof. He’ll be here in a few minutes, and then—”
“This man who knew Mr. Ashton?” interrupted Viner. “Where is he?”
“Dr. Martincole will bring him in,” said Mrs. Killenhall, “Come upstairs, Mr. Viner.”
Viner noticed that the house through which he was led was very quiet, and larger than he should have guessed at from the street frontage. From what he could see, it was well furnished, but dark and gloomy; gloomy, too, was a back room, high up the stairs, into which Mrs. Killenhall presently showed him. There, looking somewhat anxious, sat Miss Wickham, alone.
“Here’s Mr. Viner,” said Mrs. Killenhall. “I’ll tell Dr. Martincole he’s come.”
She motioned Viner to a chair and went out. But the
