Morcross interposed with the necessary explanation. “An old house, sir, which once stood by itself in the fields. It was a dairy a hundred years ago; and it has kept the name ever since, though it’s nothing but a low lodging house now.” “One of the worst places on this side of the river,” the sergeant added, “The landlord’s a returned convict. Sly as he is we shall have him again yet, for receiving stolen goods. There’s every sort of thief among his lodgers, from a pickpocket to a housebreaker. It’s my duty to continue the inquiry, sir; but a gentleman like you will be better, I should say, out of such a place as that.” Still disquieted by the sight that he had seen in the deadhouse, and by the associations which that sight had recalled, Amelius was ready for any adventure which might relieve his mind. Even the prospect of a visit to a thieves’ lodging house was more welcome to him than the prospect of going home alone. “If there’s no serious objection to it,” he said, “I own I should like to see the place.” “You’ll be safe enough with us,” the sergeant replied. “If you don’t mind filthy people and bad language--all right, sir! Cabman, drive to the Dairy.” Their direction was now towards the south, through a perfect labyrinth of mean and dirty streets. Twice the driver was obliged to ask his way. On the second occasion the sergeant, putting his head out of the window to stop the cab, cried, “Hullo! there’s something up.” They got out in front of a long low rambling house, a complete contrast to the modern buildings about it. Late as the hour was, a mob had assembled in front of the door. The police were on the spot keeping the people in order. Morcross and the sergeant pushed their way through the crowd, leading Amelius between them. “Something wrong, sir, in the back kitchen,” said one of the policemen answering the sergeant while he opened the street door. A few yards down the passage there was a second door, with a man on the watch by it. “There’s a nice to-do downstairs,” the man announced, recognizing the sergeant, and unlocking the door with a key which he took from his pocket. “The landlord at the Dairy knows his lodgers, sir,” Morcross whispered to Amelius; “the place is kept like a prison.” As they passed through the second door, a frantic voice startled them, shouting in fury from below. An old man came hobbling up the kitchen stairs, his eyes wild with fear, his long grey hair all tumbled over his face. “Oh, Lord, have you got the tools for breaking open the door?” he asked, wringing his dirty hands in an agony of supplication. “She’ll set the house on fire! she’ll kill my wife and daughter!” The sergeant pushed him contemptuously out of the way, and looked round for Amelius. “It’s only the landlord, sir; keep near Morcross, and follow me.”