Mr. Martin walked on a step or two, then hesitated for an instant. So Sam Copperdock, from whom he bought his cigarettes in those early days, was still here. Mr. Martin had long ago abandoned cigarettes for cigars, but he felt a momentary impulse to go in and renew the old acquaintance. Sam Copperdock had been a good customer of his, he remembered. Many a bottle of whiskey had he sold him. But on second thoughts he refrained. Perhaps it would be just as well, in the light of what might happen during the next half hour or so, that his visit to Praed Street remained unsuspected. Mr. Martin walked on, and in a few minutes found himself outside Number 407. It was much as he remembered it, but that it was lying empty, and showed signs of being refitted for a new tenant. The windows were almost obscured with patches of white-wash, but peering through them he could see trestles, timber, shavings, all the litter which betrays the presence of the carpenter. So far, then, the letter was correct. Mr. Martin, after a furtive glance round about him, walked up to the door and tried it. It was locked. He drew out his watch and consulted it. It was nearly five minutes past two, but he remembered that he had noticed that morning that it was a trifle fast. Lacey, whoever he was, would doubtless be along in a moment. Mr. Martin hoped he would be quick; he had no wish to be recognized outside the premises by any of his old acquaintances. A sudden thought struck him. Perhaps Lacey was already inside, waiting for him. There was an electric bellpush by the side of the door. Mr. Martin pressed it firmly, but could hear no answering ring above the roar of the traffic. Then all at once he became aware that a small girl was standing by his side, looking up at him with an appraising expression. As he turned to look at her, she made up her mind and spoke. “Is your name Mr. Martin?” she asked. Mr. Martin frowned down at her. “What’s that got to do with you?” he replied. “’Cos if you are, Dad told me to give you the key,” she continued, quite unabashed. “And there’s a message from Mr. Lacey that you’re to go in and wait for him, as he’ll be a few minutes late.” “Oh, I see,” said Mr. Martin with a smile. “Yes, my dear, I am Mr. Martin. How did your father come to have the key?” She jerked her head towards a sweet shop two or three doors away. “We lives there,” she replied curtly. “Mr. Briggs the builder, what’s working here, leaves it with us because he’s my uncle. His men come and get it in the morning. And Mr. Lacey, him what’s coming here, telephoned just now to say you was coming to see the drains and I was to give you the key.” “Oh yes, that’s right,” said Mr. Martin, completely reassured. “Thank you, my dear, I’ll see that either Mr. Lacey or myself brings you back the key so that your uncle’s men may get in on Monday morning. That’s the shop, there, isn’t it?”