In Number Eight lived the two brothers Thomas and Francis Stockmar of Austrian extraction, who were described as political refugees but were undoubtedly criminals of a peculiarly dangerous type. The Stockmars were dour, white-faced men with short bristling hair and were certainly the least presentable of all the colonists.
Number Six has been left to the last, for this was the most important house in Crime Street. It was a story higher than any other, built squarely, with no attempt at beauty. It is said that the third floor consisted of one room and that from its many windows it was possible to command, not only all the approaches to the northern side of the gardens, but those to the south; it has even been suggested that it was so planned, that, in case of necessity, the house could be converted into a fortress, from the third floor of which a last desperate stand might be made. This then was Number Six, the abiding place of Colonel Westhanger and his brilliant niece.
Michael Pretherston was no stranger to Crime Street. He had made many visits to this locality, and it had been at his initiative that the roadway of Amberscombe Gardens had been dug up one fine morning by a gang of road-breakers and there had been revealed that remarkable subterranean passage which connected the one side of the street with the other. The passageway led from the summer house in the gardens of the oval to a stable in Number Three.
The Colonists, however, swore stoutly that they knew nothing whatever of the existence of this passage and that it must have existed years before they came to the street. The civil engineer, Colling Jacques, pointed out to the district surveyor that the very character of the passage suggested that this was some storm water drain which had been laid down and forgotten by the contractor. Or else it had been laid down in error and the contractor had been either too lazy or too rushed to break it up. There were many other explanations, none of which was wholly acceptable.
Michael, swinging his stick, passed that portion of the road in which the passage had run and wondered with a reminiscent smile where the new tunnel was, for that there was a new one, he did not doubt.
Night was falling, and Dr. Philip Garon’s dining-room windows blazed with light. Mr. Mulberry’s, on the right, was more modestly illuminated. Mr. Cunningham’s house was in darkness, as also was “The Bishop’s.” There were lights in the bedroom at Number Seven but Number Six was black as also was Number Eight.
He saw Millet standing at his garden gate, smoking, and crossed the road toward him, realizing that the keen-eyed gentleman had already observed his presence. Millet, a florid man with a genial, almost fulsome, manner met him with a friendly nod.
“Good evening, Mr. Pretherston,” he said. “I hope you are not looking for trouble.”
Michael leant on the top bar of the gate and shook his head.
“I shouldn’t come here for trouble,” he said; “this is the most law-abiding spot in London.”
Mr. Millet sighed and murmured something about misfortunes which overtake mankind and added a pious expression of his desire to forget the past and to end his days in that security and peace which sin denies its votaries.
“Very pretty,” said Michael blandly, “and how are all our good neighbours? I was thinking of taking a house here myself. By-the-way,” he added innocently, “I suppose you don’t know any that are to be let?”
Mr. Millet shook his head.
“I am all alone here,” he said, “if you were really serious about wishing to live in this neighbourhood, I should be honoured to act as your host, Mr. Pretherston.”
“And how is Kate?” demanded Michael, ignoring the invitation.
“Kate?” asked the puzzled Mr. Millet; “oh, you mean, Miss Westhanger. I haven’t seen her for several days—I think it was last Tuesday afternoon I saw her last.”
“Yes, at 2:30 in the afternoon,” mocked Michael, “she was wearing a blue dress with white spots and a green hat with an ostrich feather. You remember her distinctly because she dropped her bag and you crossed to pick it up. You needn’t start the alibi factory working, Millet; I have nothing against Kate for the moment.”
Mr. Millet laughed softly.
“You will have your joke,” he said.
“I will,” said Michael with grim emphasis, “but it is going to be a long time developing. I haven’t seen the Stockmars lately either.”
“I never see them at all,” Mr. Millet hastened to state. “I have very little in common with foreigners. Whatever there is against me, Mr. Pretherston, I am a patriot through and through. I am proud to be English and I don’t take kindly to foreign gentlemen and never will.”
“Your patriotism does you credit, Millet,” said the detective dryly as he prepared to move on. “I wish you would be patriotic enough to give me a tip as to what game is on,” he lowered his voice. “You know all that is happening here and you might do yourself a little bit of good.”
“If I knew anything,” said the other earnestly, “I would tell you in a moment, Mr. Pretherston, but here I am, out of the world, so to speak. Nobody ever consults me and I am glad they don’t. I want to be left alone to forget the past—”
“Cut all that Little Eva stuff out, Uncle Tom,” said Michael coarsely.
Other eyes had watched Michael, from behind blinds, through unsuspected peepholes, a dozen pairs of eyes had followed him as he took his slow promenade along Crime Street.
Colonel Westhanger, a tall, grey man, stood in that big
