“There’s no doubt,” wrote Short, “that we have found our man. He answers in every respect to the description which you have had by you for so many years. The only thing now left to discover is the mark on the upper lip. The man whom we suspect—for safety I name no names here—although clean shaven otherwise, wears a long and heavy moustache. I have tried once or twice to steal secretly into his room when he was sleeping. It even occurred to me to drug his wine, in order to ensure that he might have such deep repose that I could lift his moustache without his noticing it; but that opportunity has never come. I doubt, too, whether the man, who is naturally all suspicion, could arrive at such a state of slumber that I could effect my object. It is necessary, of course, to discover this mark, and it is my opinion that the wife is the only person who will be able to find out whether her husband conceals under his moustache the death’s head and arrow.” “True,” said Crossley to himself, “too true.” Having finished his letter he put it into his pocket, and soon afterwards went out. Hailing a cab, he drove to an address in Lambeth. His hansom turned into a shabby side street, and drew up before a small and decidedly common order of house. Crossley ran up the steps and rang the bell. After a moment’s delay, a woman opened the door and stood before him. She was a pale, anxious-faced woman, of middle age, untidy in appearance, with unkempt, disorderly hair. Her eyes were sunken into her head as if she had indulged in much and constant weeping. When she saw Crossley, the colour rushed into her face, and she gave a violent and perceptible start. “How do you do, Mrs. Larkins?” said the detective. Mrs. Larkins dropped a curtsey. Her words, when they did come out, were uttered so quickly that they seemed to tumble one on top of the other. “I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know you for the instant, standing with your back to the light. Come in, sir, if you please.” Crossley entered the little house without a word. The woman took him into her parlour. She was a sempstress; a sewing machine stood on the centre table, and a lot of plain linen was scattered about. A couple of children, dirty and ill-fed, were quarrelling on the hearth-rug. They did not look up or desist from their occupation of pulling each other’s hair when Crossley and the mother entered. “Send them away,” said the detective, pointing to them; “I want to see you alone, and I am in a great hurry.” “Run upstairs to granny, dears,” said the woman to the children. “Ask granny to give you a bit of supper and put you to bed.” “Granny says there ain’t nothing for supper except dry bread,” piped the elder child, “and I don’t want dry bread; do you, Bobby?” “No,” said Bobby, beginning to whimper. “I want cake.”