ELDOR STREET, Tottenham, was one of thousands of drab and ugly thoroughfares that make up the central suburbs of London. Imagine two rows of houses set on either side of a straight street, lighted at economic intervals by yellow lamps. Each house has a protuberance, called a bay window; each house is separated from the road by iron railings pierced by an iron gate. There is a tiny forecourt in which the hardiest of shrubs battle desperately for existence; there is one recessed door, and on the floor above two windows exactly alike. Elk found himself in Eldor Street at nine o’clock that night. The rain was pelting down, and the street in consequence was a desert. Most of the houses were dark, for Eldor Street lives in its kitchens, which are back of the houses. In the front window of No. 47 one crack of light showed past the edge of the lowered blind, and, creeping up to the window, he heard, at long intervals, the mumble of conversation. It was difficult to believe that he was standing at the door of Ezra Maitland’s home. That morning the newspapers had given prominence to the newest speculation of Maitlands Consolidated—a deal involving something over a million. And the master-mind of the concern lived in this squalor! Whilst he was standing there, the light was extinguished and there came to him the sound of feet in the uncarpeted passage. He had time to reach the obscurity of the other side of the street, when the door opened and two people came out: Maitland and the old woman he had seen. By the light of a street-lamp he saw that Maitland wore an overcoat buttoned to his chin. The old woman had on a long ulster, and in her hand she carried a string bag. They were going marketing! It was Saturday night, and the main street, through which Elk had passed, had been thronged with late shoppers—Tottenham leaves its buying to the last, when food can be had at bargain prices. Waiting until they were out of sight, Elk walked down the street to the end and turned to the left. He followed a wall covered with posters until he reached a narrow opening. This was the passage between the gardens—a dark, unlighted alleyway, three feet wide and running between tar-coated wooden fences. He counted the gates on his left with the help of his flash-lamp, and after a while stopped before one of them and pushed gently. The gate was locked—it was not bolted. There was a keyhole that had the appearance of use. Elk grunted his satisfaction, and, taking from his pocket a wallet, extracted a small wooden handle, into which he fitted a steel hook, chosen with care from a dozen others. This he inserted into the lock and turned. Evidently the lock was more complicated than he had expected. He tried another hook of a different shape, and yet another. At the fourth trial the lock turned and he pushed open the door gently.