. ---- Funnysides, I didn't bring you up here to listen to
no sarcastical remarks," retorted the man, with the sudden fury of a
heavy drinker. "If you've seen enough, you'd better clear out. I want to
get to bed."

"You had better behave yourself if you don't want to get into trouble,"
counselled Caldew.

"So you're a rozzer, are you? D--d if I didn't think so soon as I
clapped eyes on you. But you've got nothing against me, so I don't care
a snap of my fingers for you. You'd better hurry up."

Caldew took no further notice of him, but joined Colwyn in examining the
room. They found nothing giving any indication of its last tenant. The
only articles in the room were a bed, a broken chair, and a beam of wood
shoved diagonally against one of the walls, which threatened to fall in
on the first windy night and bury the wretched bed and its occupant.
After a brief search they turned away and went downstairs. The door was
immediately slammed behind them, and the turning of the lock and the
rattling of a chain told them that the place was closed for the night.

Pulling up his coat collar in an effort to shield himself from the
persistence of the rain, Caldew expressed his disappointment at the
failure of the night's expedition in a bitter jibe at his bad luck. At
first he thought he would wait a little longer on the watch, then he
changed his mind as he glanced at the unpromising night, and decided
that it wasn't worth while. He lived in Edgeware Road, so he shook hands
with Colwyn and set out for the Underground at King's Cross.

Colwyn returned to the _Angel_ to look for a taxi-cab. The fog was
lifting, and crowds were emerging from the cinemas and a music-hall with
the fatigued look of people who have paid in vain to be entertained.
Outside the music-hall some taxi-cabs were waiting for the more opulent
patrons of refined vaudeville who had been drawn within by the rare
promise of an intellectual baboon, reputed to have the brains of a
statesman, which shared the honours of "the top of the bill" with two
charming sisters from a West End show. The drivers of the taxi-cabs said
they were engaged, and uncivilly refused to drive the detective to
Ludgate Circus.

A Bermondsey omnibus came plunging through the fog, scattering the filth
of the road on the hurrying pleasure-goers, and stopped at the corner to
add to its grievous load of damp humanity. Those already in the darkened
interior sat stiffly motionless, like corpses