uld it be equally difficult, Ford asked himself,
for one in the street to communicate with her? What signal could he give
that would draw an answering signal from the girl?

Standing at the corner, hidden by the pillars of a portico, the water
dripping from his rain-coat, Ford gazed long and anxiously at the blank
windows of the three houses. Like blind eyes staring into his, they told
no tales, betrayed no secret. Around him the commonplace life of the
neighborhood proceeded undisturbed. Somewhere concealed in the single
row of houses a girl was imprisoned, her life threatened; perhaps even
at that moment she was facing her death. While, on either side, shut
from her by the thickness only of a brick wall, people were talking,
reading, making tea, preparing the evening meal, or, in the street
below, hurrying by, intent on trivial errands. Hansom cabs, prowling
in search of a fare, passed through the street where a woman was being
robbed of a fortune, the drivers occupied only with thoughts of a
possible shilling; a housemaid with a jug in her hand and a shawl over
her bare head, hastened to the near-by public-house; the postman made
his rounds, and delivered comic postal-cards; a policeman, shedding
water from his shining cape, halted, gazed severely at the sky, and,
unconscious of the crime that was going forward within the sound of his
own footsteps, continued stolidly into Wimpole Street.

A hundred plans raced through Ford's brain; he would arouse the street
with a false alarm of fire and lead the firemen, with the tale of a
smoking chimney, to one of the three houses; he would feign illness,
and, taking refuge in one of them, at night would explore the premises;
he would impersonate a detective, and insist upon his right to search
for stolen property. As he rejected these and a dozen schemes as
fantastic, his brain and eyes were still alert for any chance advantage
that the street might offer. But the minutes passed into an hour, and
no one had entered any of the three houses, no one had left them. In the
lower stories, from behind the edges of the blinds, lights appeared,
but of the life within there was no sign. Until he hit upon a plan of
action, Ford felt there was no longer anything to be gained by remaining
in Sowell Street. Already the answer to his cable might have arrived at
his rooms; at Gerridge's he might still learn something of Pearsall.
He decided to revisit both these places, and, while so engaged,