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“That will do,” said Carrados, when the last detail had been reached. “We can be seen from the door of No. 107 still?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No indication of anyone coming to us from there?”

“No, sir.”

Carrados walked thoughtfully on again. In the Holloway Road they rejoined the waiting motor-car.

“Lambeth Bridge Station” was the order the driver received.

From the station the car was sent on home and Parkinson was instructed to take two first-class singles for Richmond, which could be reached by changing at Stafford Road. The “evening rush” had not yet commenced and they had no difficulty in finding an empty carriage when the train came in.

Parkinson was kept busy that journey describing what he saw at various points between Lambeth Bridge and Knight’s Cross. For a quarter of a mile Carrados’s demands on the eyes and the memory of his remarkable servant were wide and incessant. Then his questions ceased. They had passed the “stop” signal, east of Knight’s Cross Station.

The following afternoon they made the return journey as far as Knight’s Cross. This time, however, the surroundings failed to interest Carrados. “We are going to look at some rooms,” was the information he offered on the subject, and an imperturbable “Yes, sir” had been the extent of Parkinson’s comment on the unusual proceeding. After leaving the station they turned sharply along a road that ran parallel with the line, a dull thoroughfare of substantial, elderly houses that were beginning to sink into decrepitude. Here and there a corner residence displayed the brass plate of a professional occupant, but for the most part they were given up to the various branches of second-rate apartment letting.

“The third house after the one with the flagstaff,” said Carrados.

Parkinson rang the bell, which was answered by a young servant, who took an early opportunity of assuring them that she was not tidy as it was rather early in the afternoon. She informed Carrados, in reply to his inquiry, that Miss Chubb was at home, and showed them into a melancholy little sitting-room to await her appearance.

“I shall be ‘almost’ blind here, Parkinson,” remarked Carrados, walking about the room. “It saves explanation.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Parkinson.

Five minutes later, an interval suggesting that Miss Chubb also found it rather early in the afternoon, Carrados was arranging to take rooms for his attendant and himself for the short time that he would be in London, seeing an oculist.

“One bedroom, mine, must face north,” he stipulated. “It has to do with the light.”

Miss Chubb replied that she quite understood. Some gentlemen, she added, had their requirements, others their fancies. She endeavoured to suit all. The bedroom she had in view from the first did face north. She would not have known, only the last gentleman, curiously enough, had made the same request.

“A sufferer like myself?” inquired Carrados affably.

Miss Chubb did not think so. In his case she regarded it merely as a fancy. He had said that he could not sleep on any other side. She had had to turn out of her own room to accommodate him, but if one kept an apartment-house one had to be adaptable; and Mr. Ghoosh was certainly very liberal in his ideas.

“Ghoosh? An Indian gentleman, I presume?” hazarded Carrados.

It appeared that Mr. Ghoosh was an Indian. Miss Chubb confided that at first she had been rather perturbed at the idea of taking in “a black man,” as she confessed to regarding him. She reiterated, however, that Mr. Ghoosh proved to be “quite the gentleman.” Five minutes of affability put Carrados in full possession of Mr. Ghoosh’s manner of life and movements–the dates of his arrival and departure, his solitariness and his daily habits.

“This would be the best bedroom,” said Miss Chubb.

It was a fair-sized room on the first floor. The window looked out on to the roof of an outbuilding; beyond, the deep cutting of the railway line. Opposite stood the dead wall that Mr. Carlyle had spoken of.