to meet Mr. Pearsall was apparently lost
in a wave of self-pity. In his disappointment he appealing, pathetic
figure.

Real detectives and rival newspaper men, even while they admitted Ford
obtained facts that were denied them, claimed that they were given him
from charity. Where they bullied, browbeat, and administered a third
degree, Ford was embarrassed, deprecatory, an earnest, ingenuous,
wide-eyed child. What he called his "working" smile begged of you not
to be cross with him. His simplicity was apparently so hopeless, his
confidence in whomever he addressed so complete, that often even the
man he was pursuing felt for him a pitying contempt. Now as he stood
uncertainly in the hall of the hotel, his helplessness moved the proud
lady clerk to shake her cylinders of false hair sympathetically,
the German waiters to regard his predicament with respect; even the
proprietor, Mr. Gerridge himself, was ill at ease. Ford returned to his
room, on the second floor of the hotel, and sat down on the edge of the
bed.

In connecting Pearsall with Gerridge's, both the police and himself had
failed. Of this there were three possible explanations: that the girl
who wrote the letter was in error, that the letter was a hoax, that the
proprietor of the hotel, for some reason, was protecting Pearsall, and
had deceived both Ford and Scotland Yard. On the other hand, without
knowing why the girl believed Pearsall would be found at Gerridge's,
it was reasonable to assume that in so thinking she had been purposely
misled. The question was, should he or not dismiss Gerridge's as a
possible clew, and at once devote himself to finding the house in Sowell
Street? He decided for the moment at least, to leave Gerridge's out of
his calculations, but, as an excuse for returning there, to still retain
his room. He at once started toward Sowell Street, and in order to find
out if any one from the hotel were following him, he set forth on foot.
As soon as he made sure he was not spied upon, he covered the remainder
of the distance in a cab.

He was acting on the supposition that the letter was no practical joke,
but a genuine cry for help. Sowell Street was a scene set for such
an adventure. It was narrow, mean-looking, the stucco house-fronts,
soot-stained, cracked, and uncared-for, the steps broken and unwashed.
As he entered it a cold rain was falling, and a yellow fog that rolled
between the houses added to its dreariness. It was now late in