"

"Dark spot. Do fellows sleep under here?"

The policeman nodded. "There's not an arch in London where we don't get
'em sometimes."

"Nothing found on him--I think I read?"

"Not a copper. Pockets inside out. There's some funny characters about
this quarter. Greeks, Hitalians--all sorts."

Queer sensation this, of being glad of a policeman's confidential tone!

"Well, good-night!"

"Good-night, sir. Good-night!"

He looked back from Borrow Street. The policeman was still standing
there holding up his lantern, so that its light fell into the archway, as
if trying to read its secret.

Now that he had seen this dark, deserted spot, the chances seemed to him
much better. "Pockets inside out!" Either Larry had had presence of
mind to do a very clever thing, or someone had been at the body before
the police found it. That was the more likely. A dead backwater of a
place. At three o'clock--loneliest of all hours--Larry's five minutes'
grim excursion to and fro might well have passed unseen! Now, it all
depended on the girl; on whether Laurence had been seen coming to her or
going away; on whether, if the man's relationship to her were discovered,
she could be relied on to say nothing. There was not a soul in Borrow
Street now; hardly even a lighted window; and he took one of those rather
desperate decisions only possible to men daily accustomed to the instant
taking of responsibility. He would go to her, and see for himself. He
came to the door of Forty-two, obviously one of those which are only shut
at night, and tried the larger key. It fitted, and he was in a
gas-lighted passage, with an oil-clothed floor, and a single door to his
left. He stood there undecided. She must be made to understand that he
knew everything. She must not be told more than that he was a friend of
Larry's. She must not be frightened, yet must be forced to give her very
soul away. A hostile witness--not to be treated as hostile--a matter for
delicate handling! But his knock was not answered.

Should he give up this nerve-racking, bizarre effort to come at a basis
of judgment; go away, and just tell Laurence that he could not advise
him? And then--what? Something must be done. He knocked again. Still
no answer. And with that impatience of being thwarted, natural to him,
and fostered to the full by the conditions of his life, he tried the
other key. It worked, and he opened the door. Inside all was dark, but a