“Vie de Bohème.” Ten o’clock passed, and I heard the footsteps of the maid as

they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread of the landlady

passed my door, bound for the same destination. It was close upon twelve before

I heard the sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his

face that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be

struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he

burst into a hearty laugh.

 

“I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world,” he cried, dropping

into his chair; “I have chaffed them so much that they would never have let me

hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I know that I will be even

with them in the long run.”

 

“What is it then?” I asked.

 

“Oh, I don’t mind telling a story against myself. That creature had gone a

little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being foot-sore.

Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. I

managed to be close to her so as to hear the address, but I need not have been

so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough to be heard at the other side of the

street, ‘Drive to 13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,’ she cried. This begins to

look genuine, I thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched myself

behind.

 

That’s an art which every detective should be an expert at. Well, away we