Abrams. 'E lives in Cowley Street, No. 4--Dr. Emanuel
Abrams. A good doctor when 'e's sober, and the morning's the best time
to be sure of 'im. Certingly 'e's been in to see your friend several
times. They've been merry together more than once."

"Where is Cowley Street?" asked Maggie.

"First to the right when you get out of the 'ouse, and then second to
the left again. No. 4's the number. It's most likely 'e'll be asleep.
Yes, Dr. Abrams, that's the name. 'E's attended a lot in this 'ouse.
Wot a pretty flower! Cheers the room up I must say. Will you be wanting
another fire?"

"Yes," said Maggie. "Could Emily see to that while I'm away?"

"Certingly," said Mrs. Brandon, looking at Maggie with a curious
confidential smile--a hateful smile, but there was no time to think
about it.

Maggie went out. She found Cowley Street without any difficulty. Dr.
Abrams was up and having his breakfast. His close, musty room smelt of
whisky and kippers. He himself was a little, fat round Jew, very red in
the face, very small in the eye, very black in the hair, and very dirty
in the hands.

He was startled by Maggie's appearance--very different she was from his
usual patients.

"Looked just a baby," he informed Mrs. Brandon afterwards.

"Mrs. Warlock?" he asked.

"No," said Maggie defiantly. "I'm a friend of Mr. Warlock's."

"Ah, yes--quite so." He wiped his mouth, disappeared into another room,
returned with a shabby black bag and a still shabbier top hat, and
declared himself ready to start.

"It's pneumonia," he told her as they went along. "Had it three weeks
ago. Of course if he was out in yesterday's fog that finished him."

"He was out," said Maggie, "for a long time."

"Quite so," said Dr. Abrams. "That's killed him, I shouldn't wonder."
He snuffled in his speech and he snuffled in his walk.

Before they had gone very far he put his hand on Maggie's arm; she
hated his touch, but his last words had so deeply terrified her that
nothing else affected her. If Martin were killed by going out yesterday
then she had killed him. He had gone out to escape her. But she drove
that thought from her as she had driven so many others.

"The pneumonia's bad enough," said the little man, becoming more
confidential as his grip tightened on her arm, "but it's heart's the
trouble. Might finish him any day. Tells me his father was the same.
What a nice warm arm you've got, my dear--it's a pleasant day, too."

They entered the ho