We accordingly faced about and walked back to the corner, where Thorndyke read out the name, Mendoza Avenue. “Yes,” he said, “this is the way,” and we thereupon turned down the Avenue, following it to the bottom, where it ended in a cross-road, the name of which, Berners Park, I recognized as that which I had seen on Elliott’s letter. “Sixty-four is the number,” said Thorndyke, “so as this corner house is forty-six and the next is forty-eight, it will be a little way along on this side, just about where you can see that smoke--which, by the way, seems to be coming out of a window.” “Yes, by Jove!” I exclaimed. “The staircase window, apparently. Not our house, I hope!” But it was. We read the number and the name, “Green Bushes,” on the gate as we came up to it, and we hurried up the short path to the door. There was no knocker, but when Miller fixed his thumb on the bell-push, we heard a loud ringing within. But there was no response; and meanwhile the smoke poured more and more densely out of the open window above. “Rum!” exclaimed Miller, sticking to the bell-push like a limpet. “House seems to be empty.” “I don’t think it is,” Thorndyke replied calmly. The superintendent looked at him with quick suspicion, and then glanced at the ground-floor window. “That window is unfastened,” said he, “and here comes a constable.” Sure enough, a policeman was approaching quickly, looking up at the houses. Suddenly he perceived the smoke and quickened his pace, arriving just as Thorndyke had pulled down the upper window-sash and was preparing to climb over into the room. The constable hailed him sternly, but a brief explanation from Miller reduced the officer to a state of respectful subservience, and we all followed Thorndyke through the open window, from which smoke now began to filter. “Send the constable upstairs to give the alarm,” Thorndyke instructed Miller in a low tone. The order was given without question, and the next moment the officer was bounding up the stairs, roaring like a whole fire brigade. Meanwhile, the superintendent browsed along the hall through the dense smoke, sniffing inquisitively, and at length approached the street door. Suddenly, from the heart of the reek, his voice issued in tones of amazement. “Well, I’m hanged! It’s a plumber’s smoke-rocket. Some fool has stuck it through into the letter-cage!” In the silence which followed this announcement I heard an angry voice from above demand: “What is all this infernal row about? And what are you doing here?” “Can’t you see that the house is on fire?” was the constable’s stern rejoinder. “You’d better come down and help to put it out.”