With some repugnance Poole slipped a ten-shilling note into the grimy palm. The man spat on it and tucked it into his belt. “I knows where ’e got it from—the spondulics to pay ’er with.” He paused for encouragement, but receiving none, continued: “I ’eard ’im this time, it was, arstin’ a pal where ’e could raise the wind—said ’e’d tried all the usual—father, ‘uncles,’ Jews, Turks an’ other infidelities—nuthin’ doin’—’ad enough of ’im. This pal put ’im on to a new squeezer—chap called ‘Silence’ in Lemon Street, back o’ the Lyceum. Seen ’is place meself—neat an’ unpretenshus. That’s the chap. That’s worf anover, ain’t it?” Poole shook his head. “We’ll stick to our bargain for the moment,” he said. “What’s your name, in case I want you again?” But that was asking too much. “That ain’t part o’ the bargain,” he said. “If yer wants me, yer can alwys find me—round the ‘Hinanity’—Mr. Gabb’ll give yer a reference.” And with a peck at his cap the man was gone. Poole felt that this might well be a useful line of inquiry; he turned his steps automatically towards the Lyceum—of course, it was long past business hours but he might as well have a look at the place. Lemon Street proved to be a very short and very dark alley that ran out of Wellington Street almost immediately behind the Lyceum Theatre. There were not more than half a dozen houses in it, all gloomy and nondescript. On the third of them, Poole descried a small black plate over an electric door-bell, inscribed in white with the one word: Silence. It looked more like an injunction than a name. The detective was conscious of being intrigued. Stepping back across the street to get a better view of the house he became aware of a glimmer of light over the fanlight of the door—it appeared to come from a room at the back—possibly in this queer neighbourhood and with an unusual clientele, office hours might be so unconventional as to include ten o’clock at night. Deciding to put this theory to the test, Poole went back to the door and touched the bell. He heard no answering trill; but in a moment or two the door opened silently and at the same time a light, shaded so as to throw its beam upon anyone on the doorstep while leaving the passage in darkness, was switched on. Poole could just make out a dim figure beyond the door, then the light was switched off, and a hand beckoned to him to enter. He did so and the door closed quietly behind him whilst the figure led the way down the passage to a room at the back. Poole could see now that the man who had admitted him was short and slightly hunchbacked, and, when he turned to motion Poole to a chair in the inner room, that his face was sallow and covered with faint pockmarks, whilst his hair was black and meagre. Truly a figure worthy of its setting. “Silence?” said Poole, by way of opening the interview. The man bowed but did not speak.