"That's a man," said David, and they entered the flat. Harcourt shut and bolted the door. "Now," he said, "you mount guard in the passage, while I carry on the hunt." He would have disturbed a mouse were it in hiding, so complete was his second scrutiny of every nook. At the end of a fruitless quest he gave the porter a whisky and soda. "I'll tell you wot, sir," said the man, "there's more in this than meets the heye. Miss L'Estrange, she never saw anythink, but she 'eard all sorts o' rummy noises, an' twiced she found that all 'er things 'ad bin rummidged. An' it was no thief, neither. The maid, she acshully sawr the pore lydy. If I may s'y it in confidence, sir, and you wants ter be comfortable, there's No. 18 in the next block--" "I have rented the place for six months, and I shall stay in it," said David. "Have another? No? Well, here is half a crown. Say nothing about to-night's adventure. I am going to bed." "Lordy! Goin' ter sleep 'ere alone?" gasped his companion. "I wouldn't do it for a pension." "Yet I am paying for the privilege. However, not a word, remember." "Right you are, sir. 'Ope you'll 'ave a good night's rest, sir. I'll be in the lift for another 'arf hour, if you should 'appen to want me." Left to himself, David bolted the outer door again, and returned to the dining-room. Obeying an impulse, he jotted down some notes of the occurrence, paying special heed to times and impressions. Then he went to bed, having locked his bed-room door and placed his revolver under his pillow. He imagined that he would remain awake many hours, but, tired and overwrought, he was soon asleep, to be aroused only by the news-agent's effort to stuff a morning paper into the letter-box. The charwoman was already in the flat, and the sun was shining through the drawn-thread pattern of the blinds. "The air of London must be drugged," thought David, looking at his watch. "Asleep at half-past eight of a fine morning!" Such early-morning reproaches mark the first stage of town life. After breakfast he went to his bank. He had expended a good deal of money during the past month, but was well equipped in substantials, owned a comfortable home for six months--barring such experiences as those of the preceding night--and found at the bank a good balance to his credit. "I will hold on until I have left two hundred pounds of my capital and earnings combined," he decided; "then I shall take the next mail steamer to some place where they raise stock." He called at the agent's office. "Nothing amiss, I hope?" said Mr. Dibbin. "Nothing, whatever. I just happened in to get a few pointers about Miss Gwendoline Barnes." Harcourt found that in London it was helpful to use Americanisms in his speech. People smiled and became attentive when new idioms tickled their metropolitan ears. But the mention of the dead tenant of No. 7 Eddystone Mansions froze Dibbin's smile. "What about her? Poor lady! she might well be forgotten," he said.