When I returned to town that same evening and told Staffurth he became wildly excited.
“Really, doctor,” he said, “the matter increases in interest daily.”
“When I take possession of the Manor, I think we ought to make a search,” I replied. “We must not allow burglars to enter there, or they may forestall us after all.”
“Of course, of course. The treasure may be hidden in the house for aught we know. It is important that we should be the first to make a thorough examination of the place.”
“But what is most important of all is that we’ve gained the address of this man Purvis.”
“Calthorpe Street is not the most respectable neighbourhood in London,” he observed. “Do you know it?”
I confessed to ignorance, but next morning went to Gray’s Inn Road and found the dingy street running off to the right, opposite the end of Guilford Street. No. 7 was, I discovered, a grimy, smoke-blackened private house, like most of the others, set back behind iron railings, with a deep basement. The windows sadly required cleaning, and at them hung limp and sooty lace curtains which had once been white.
Walking on the opposite side of the pavement I passed and repassed it several times, noting its exterior well. The windows of the first floor were better kept than those of the dining-room, and on a small round table I noticed a doll. From those facts I gathered that the place was let out in apartments, and that the occupants of the first floor were a man with his wife and little daughter. It was not yet eight o’clock, and the newspaper man passing left a paper beneath the knocker—a Sporting Life, which further showed the racing proclivities of at least one of the inmates. Presently, as I watched, the postman came along, and, slipping several letters into the slit in the front door, passed on without knocking.
I hurried along the street into the King’s Cross Road, and, when he turned the corner, accosted him.
At first he was inclined to be uncommunicative, as a good servant of the Post Office should be, but by the application of a small refresher his tongue was unloosened, and he told me that the occupants of No. 7 were racing people.
“They’re bookmakers, I fancy,” he added. “They have lots of letters by every post, and post-cards about tips and things.”
“Do you know the name of George Purvis?”
“Yes. It’s some one who has, I think, come to live there lately.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not at all. Never seen him.”
“How long ago did you deliver the first letter addressed to Purvis?”
“About three weeks, I think. But if you want to know more, why don’t you ask the servant? She’s doing the steps now. I daresay she’d tell you all about him.”
I took the man’s advice, and returning to the house found a dirty, ill-dressed girl in canvas apron slopping water over the front steps and rubbing hearthstone upon them.
With some caution I addressed her, and, having slipped half a crown into her hand, told her to say nothing of my inquiries, but to respond to my questions.
“Do you know a gentleman named Mr. George Purvis who lives here?” I asked.
“I know Mr. Purvis, sir, but ’e don’t live ’ere. ’E only calls for his letters sometimes, and missus gives them to him.”
“What’s your mistress’s name?”
“Mrs. Graham.”
“And who are the people who live upstairs?”
“They’re the Johnsons. Mr. Johnson is on the turf, they say. ’E goes to race-meetin’s in a white hat and a bag slung over his shoulder.”
“But where does Mr. Purvis live?”
“I don’t know, sir. He comes sometimes to see Mrs. Graham.”
“Does he receive many letters?”
“Oh, two or three a week, perhaps.”
“Well,” I said, “if you want to earn a sovereign you can do so very easily. Find out for me where Mr. Purvis lives, and I’ll give you a sovereign.”
The girl, although of true Cockney type, dirty and slatternly, was nevertheless intelligent.
She seemed somewhat dubious, replying:?—
“I’m very much afraid, sir, that I won’t be able to do it. But I’ll try, if you like.”
“Yes, try,” I said eagerly. “I shall pass by now and again about this same hour in the morning, and when you’ve been successful, tell me. By the way, what kind of man is Mr. Purvis?”
“Well, sir, ’e’s very thin, rather tall, with a pale face and sandy hair. But I must get on; Mrs. Graham’s coming down.”
“Recollect what I’ve told you, and if you say nothing to anybody I’ll make it thirty shillings. You understand?”
“All right, sir,” answered the girl, bending again to her work, and I passed along the street and out again to the Gray’s Inn Road.
I was once more disappointed, for I believed that I had tracked my rival to his home. But it seemed that the fellow was far too wary. He received his correspondence through the hands of this woman, Mrs. Graham, thus showing that he wished to conceal his place of abode. When a woman is the receiver of a man’s letters, it is always looked upon by the police as a bad sign.
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CHAPTER XV REVEALS SOMETHING OF IMPORTANCE
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CHAPTER XVII THE SELLER OF THE SECRET
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