Part 31 (2/2)

The number given him proved to be that on a narrow doorway between two shops. A piece of paper was stuck on the woodwork beside the 'bells on which was written, Please Walk Up, so that we obeyed.

On the first floor the doors seemed fairly well painted, and on several of them were visiting cards in little bra.s.s slots. But as we went higher the place grew dingier, and less cared-for.

Nice sort of a house to bring anyone to, said Mrs. Walker bitterly. You never know who might walk out of one of those doors. It's like a film I saw, only worse.

We reached a door on which there was a soiled piece of pink writing paper with the name Miss Estelle Smythe scribbled over it. Stute tapped.

Mrs. Walker beside me was breathing heavily either from excitement or the effort of climbing the stairs. But at first no sound came front within, and Stute tapped harder.

Wait a minute, can't you? It was a shrill feminine voice, loud and irritable.

Is it? I whispered to Mrs. Walker.

Shshs.h.!.+ she returned, her ear pressed forward, and her eyes blinking.

At last the door was opened, and I caught a glimpse of a girl with tousled hair, dressed in a kimono.

What on earth ... she began, then, seeing Mrs. Walker, she gave a cry of indignation and horror, and tried to shut the door.

But Stute had pushed his foot forward. The girl shouted something. Go away! I think it was.

Then Mrs. Walker, nodding excitedly, exclaimed, That's her! with more emphasis than grammatical precision, and we all surged forward into the room.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE GIRL was quick to recover her self-possession.

What's this mean? she snapped at Stute.

Mrs. Walker came forward. My dear, I'm so thankful to see you. I never for a moment thought but what that young rotter had done you in. I knew. . . .

Oh it's you, is it? said the girl furiously. You've brought them here have you? You dirty old swine, you! I might have known when I came to stay in your filthy house you'd do something like this. And who are these fellows? A couple of d.i.c.ks, I suppose. Well, what d'you want, both of you?

Stute stared coldly at her.

Your name Smythe? he asked.

Well? If it is?

You were in Chopley and afterwards in Braxham on the day on which Alan Rogers committed suicide?

Well?

Then why haven't you come forward with your information?

Perhaps I didn't choose to.

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