to his pocket, and, leaving the sergeant to take
possession of the other effects, made his way out of the building.

"I suppose, Doctor," said he, as we crossed into Berners Street, "you
are not coming our way! Don't want to see Mr. Schoenberg, h'm?"

Thorndyke reflected for a moment. "Well, it isn't very far, and we may
as well see the end of the incident. Yes; let us go together."

No. 213, Greek Street, was one of those houses that irresistibly suggest
to the observer the idea of a church organ, either jamb of the doorway
being adorned with a row of brass bell-handles corresponding to the
stop-knobs.

These the sergeant examined with the air of an expert musician, and
having, as it were, gauged the capacity of the instrument, selected the
middle knob on the right-hand side and pulled it briskly; whereupon a
first-floor window was thrown up and a head protruded. But it afforded
us a momentary glimpse only, for, having caught the sergeant's upturned
eye, it retired with surprising precipitancy, and before we had time to
speculate on the apparition, the street-door was opened and a man
emerged. He was about to close the door after him when the inspector
interposed.

"Does Mr. Adolf Schoenberg live here?"

The new-comer, a very typical Jew of the red-haired type, surveyed us
thoughtfully through his gold-rimmed spectacles as he repeated the name.

"Schoenberg--Schoenberg? Ah, yes! I know. He lives on the third-floor. I
saw him go up a short time ago. Third-floor back;" and indicating the
open door with a wave of the hand, he raised his hat and passed into the
street.

"I suppose we had better go up," said the inspector, with a dubious
glance at the row of bell-pulls. He accordingly started up the stairs,
and we all followed in his wake.

There were two doors at the back on the third-floor, but as the one was
open, displaying an unoccupied bedroom, the inspector rapped smartly on
the other. It flew open almost immediately, and a fierce-looking little
man confronted us with a hostile stare.

"Well?" said he.

"Mr. Adolf Schoenberg?" inquired the inspector.

"Well? What about him?" snapped our new acquaintance.

"I wished to have a few words with him," said Badger.

"Then what the deuce do you come banging at _my_ door for?" demanded the
other.

"Why, doesn't he live here?"

"No. First-floor front," replied our friend, preparing to close the
door.

"Pardon me," said Thorndyke, "but what is Mr. Schoenbe