Primrose Crescent lies just off Tottenham Court Road, and though a short distance away the great thoroughfare is full of noise and bustle, everything is comparatively silent in this crescent. Milk-carts are the most frequent vehicles, and occasionally a rakish-looking hansom makes its appearance, while ragged mendicants sometimes pay the neighbourhood a visit, and troll out lively ditties in gin-cracked voices. The organ-grinder is not an unknown personage either, and his infernal machine may frequently be heard playing the latest music-hall melodies as he glances round in search of the humble brown.

The houses are somewhat dismal; tall--very tall, built of dull-hued red brick, with staring windows and little iron balconies, meant for show, not use. No Bloomsbury Juliet can lean over the ornamental ironwork and whisper sweet nothings to Romeo; if she did, Juliet would forthwith be precipitated into the basement, where dwells the servant of the house in company with the domestic cat, and the love-scene would end within the prosaic walls of a hospital.

There are a good many boarding-houses to be found in Primrose Crescent, where City clerks, literary aspirants and coming actors are to be found. A touch of Bohemianism pervades the whole street, and perhaps in the future, neat tablets let into the walls of the houses will inform posterity that Horatio Muggins, the celebrated poet, and Simon Memphison, the famous actor, resided there. But fame is as yet far from the quiet street, and the dwellers therein are still struggling upward or downward as their inclinations may lead them.

Mrs. Mulgy was the landlady of one of these boarding-houses, and by dint of hard work and incessant watchfulness managed to keep the wolf from the door; but, alas, the wolf was never far off, and it took all Mrs. Mulgy's time to keep him at his distance. The basement of her mansion was devoted to the kitchen, the presiding deity of which was a pale, thin-looking servant, with a hungry eye and a deprecating manner, who answered to the name of Rondalina, which sounded well and cost nothing. She used to ascend from the kitchen like a ghost from the tomb, wander about the house to minister to the wants of the boarders, and then return to the grave, or rather the kitchen, once more. A rising musician occupied the ground-floor, who went to bed very early in the morning, and got up very late in the afternoon. He was writing an opera which was to make his name, but meantime devoted his spare moments to instructing small children in the art of music, which tried his temper greatly, and rendered him morose. On the first floor dwelt Mr. Myles Desmond, whose occupation was that of a journalist, and, being good-looking, smartly dressed and well connected, was Mrs. Mulgy's trump-card in the way of lodgers. Above was the habitation of a maiden lady, by name Miss Jostler, who called herself an artist, and painted fire-screens, Xmas cards and such like things, with conventional landscapes and flowers. In the attics lived several young men who, having no money and plenty of spirits, formed quite a little colony of Bohemians, being principally concerned with theatricals and literary life.

It was a queer place altogether, and the individuals were a kind of happy family except that they did not mix much with one another, but they all paid their bills comparatively regular, and so Mrs. Mulgy was content.

It was to this place that Mr. Dowker took his way the day after his interview with Ellersby. As he had seen Madame Rêne, Lydia Fenny, Mrs. Povy, and Mr. Ellersby all in one day, and obtained valuable information from each, he thought he would defer his call on Mr. Desmond, and spent the night in arranging all the evidence he had acquired during the day. The result was very satisfactory to himself, and he wended his steps towards Mr. Desmond's abode in a very happy frame of mind.

It was about eleven o'clock, and Myles Desmond sat in his sitting-room scribbling an article for a society journal, called Asmodeus, published for the express purpose of unroofing people's houses, and exposing to the world their private life. Not that Desmond did such a thing, he would have scorned to violate the sanctity of private life, but he wrote for all kinds of magazines and papers, and as Asmodeus paid well, he now and then wrote them a smart essay on existing evils, or a cynical social story.

He was a tall young man, with reddish hair and moustache, a clever, intellectual face, perhaps not actually good-looking, but a face that attracted attention, and when he chose to exert himself, he could talk excellently on the current topics of the day. His breakfast lay on the table, untouched, he having only swallowed a cup of coffee, and then pushed the table-cloth aside to make room for his papers. Dressed in an old smoking-suit, he leaned one elbow on the table occasionally, ran his fingers through his hair and wrote rapidly, only stopping every now and then to relight his pipe. He was engaged in writing an essay on "Cakes and Ale," and satirising the vices of a new school of novelists, who, in their desire to become pure and wholesome, had gone to the other extreme and taken all the masculine vigour out of their productions.

Myles looked worn and haggard, as if he had been up all night, and every now and then his swift pen would stop as he pondered over some thought. There was a ring at the bell below, but he took no notice. This was followed shortly afterwards by a knock at the door, and Rondalina glided in, saying a gentleman wished to see him.

"Show him in," said Myles, not looking up. "Wonder who it can be," he muttered, as Rondalina went out; "hang those fellows, they won't even let me have the morning to myself."

When the door opened he glanced up and saw that the new corner was not a friend, but a tall, grey man whom he did not know. Myles paused with his pen in his hand, and waited for his visitor to speak, looking at him interrogatively meanwhile.

Mr. Dowker--tor of course it was he--closed the door carefully, and advancing to the table, introduced himself in two words:

"Dowker--detective!"

If Myles looked haggard before, he looked still more so now. His face grew pale, and he shot an enquiring glance at his visitor, who stood looking mournfully at him. Then, throwing down his pen in an irritable manner, he arose to his feet.

"Well, Mr. Dowker?" he said a little nervously. "You want to see me."

"I do--very particularly," replied Dowker, coolly taking a seat, "and believe you can guess what it's about."

Myles drew his brows together, and shook his head. "No. I'm afraid I can't," he said coldly.

"The Jermyn Street murder."

Myles gave a kind of gasp, and turned away towards the mantel-piece, ostensibly to fill his pipe, but in reality to conceal his agitation.

"Well," he said in an unsteady voice, "and what have I to do with it?"

"That's what I want to know," said Dowker imperturbably.

Myles Desmond glanced keenly at him, lighted his pipe, resumed his seat at the table, and leaning his elbows thereon, stared coolly at the detective.

"You speak in riddles," he said quietly.

"Humph!" answered Dowker meaningly, "perhaps you can guess them."

"Not till you explain them more fully," retorted Desmond.

It was evidently a duel between the two men, and they both felt it to be so. Dowker wanted to find out something, which Desmond knew, and Desmond on his side was equally determined to hold his tongue. The cleverest man would win in the end, so Dowker began the battle at once.

"The woman who was murdered was your cousin's mistress, Lena Sarschine."

"Indeed!" said Desmond, with a start of surprise. "May I ask how you know?"

"That is not the point," retorted Dowker quickly. "I have satisfied myself as to the identity of the murdered woman--you were the last person who saw her alive."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, at Lord Calliston's chambers, between eleven and twelve o'clock on Monday night."

"Who says I saw her?"

"Mrs. Povy."

Myles Desmond's lip curled.

"You seem to have obtained all your information beforehand," he said with a sneer; "perhaps you'll tell me what you want to know from me?"

"First--did you see Miss Sarschine on Monday?"

"Yes! I did, but in the afternoon, not at night."

"But Mrs. Povy said she called on you there, on Monday night."

"Mrs. Povy is mistaken, I did not see her."

"Did you see anyone at that time?"

"That's my business."

"Pardon me," said Dowker ironically, "but it's mine also. You had better answer my questions or you may find yourself in an uncommonly awkward fix."

"Oh! so you mean to accuse me of Lena Sarschine's murder."

"That depends," replied Dowker ambiguously; "tell me what you did on Monday night."

Myles thought a moment, and seeing his perilous position resolved to answer.

"I went to the Frivolity Theatre, then to the office of the newspaper, Hash, and afterwards----"

"Well?"

"I went along to Lord Calliston's rooms, about half-past ten."

"I thought so, and why did you go there?"

"Not to commit a crime," retorted Desmond coolly, "but only to arrange some papers for my cousin--he had gone down to Shoreham by the ten minutes past nine train."

"Did you see him off?"

"No."

"Then how did you know he went?"

"Because he said he was going."

"With Lady Balscombe?"

"I know nothing about that," said Desmond coldly, "he went--as far as I know--by himself. I was at his chambers to arrange his papers, and after I had done so, I left."

"Did no one call while you were there?"

"Yes," reluctantly.

"A lady?"

"Well, a woman," evasively.

"Miss Sarschine?"

"No, it was not Miss Sarschine, that I can swear to."

"Then who was it?"

"No one having anything to do with this case--a friend of my own."

"I must know the name."

"I refuse to tell you."

Both men looked steadily at one another, and then Dowker changed the subject.

"Why did you quarrel with your friend?"

"That is my business."

"Oh! and what time did your friend leave?"

"Shortly after twelve."

"And you?"

"Went a few minutes afterwards."

"You came home?"

"After a time--yes."

"Where did you go in the meantime?"

"I refuse to answer."

"Then I can tell you--down St. James' Street."

Myles Desmond uttered an oath, and asked sharply:

"Who told you that?"

"No one; but Mr. Ellersby met you coming up shortly after two o'clock."

"Yes, I did meet him there."

"Why did you not go straight home?"

Desmond seemed to be trying to think of something--at last with an effort he said:

"I was afraid my friend might get lost in the fog, and followed her down St. James' Street, then I lost sight of her, and after a time came up St. James' Street, where I met Ellersby. I did not see my friend again, so I came home."

"You did not see your friend after she left Lord Calliston's chambers?"

"No, I did not!" said Desmond, with a sudden flush.

"That's a lie," thought Dowker, eyeing him sharply, then he said out aloud:

"You have answered all my questions except the most important ones."

"I have answered all I intend to answer."

"Then you refuse to give me the name of the woman whom you saw on Monday night?"

"Yes!"

"Mrs. Povy is certain it was Miss Sarschine."

"As I said before, Mrs. Povy is mistaken."

"Do you know I can arrest you on suspicion?"

"You have no grounds to go upon."

"You were the person who last saw the deceased alive."

"Pardon me. I deny that I saw the deceased at all on that night."

"Mrs. Povy can prove it."

"Then let Mrs. Povy do so."

Dowker grew angry--the self-possession and coolness of this young man annoyed him--so he resolved for the present to temporise.

"Well, well, Mr. Desmond, I suppose you can give a good account of yourself on that night?"

"Certainly, to the proper authorities."

"Good morning," said Dowker, and walked out of the room. When he got into the street he strolled along a little way, thinking deeply.

"Confound him! He knows something," he said to himself, "and refuses to tell. I won't lose sight of him, so I must get that little devil, Flip, to look after him. I'll look him up now, and start him at once."

Just as he was about to put this resolve into execution he saw the door of the house he had just left open, and the servant came out with a piece of paper in her hand, which the keen-eyed detective saw was a telegraph form.

"Hullo!" said Dowker to himself. "I wonder if Mr. Desmond's sending that. I'll just find out."

Rondalina went along to the little post-office at the end of the street, and turned in. Shortly afterwards, Dowker followed, and, going to the counter, took a telegraph form as if to send a telegram. The girl was attending to someone else, and Rondalina, with the telegram opened out before her, was waiting her turn. Dowker dexterously leaned across her to get a pen, and glanced rapidly at the telegram, which he read in a moment:

"PENFOLD,

"c/o Balscombe, Park Lane, "Meet me Marble Arch three o'clock,

"Myles."

Dowker sent a fictitious telegram, and then strolled leisurely out.

"Hum!" he said, thoughtfully. "That's the girl he wants to marry. I wonder what are his reasons for seeing her to-day. I'd like to overhear their conversation. Can't go myself, as he knows me, so Flip will be the very person."

And Dowker departed to find Flip.