Momentarily, a hard look came into the tired eyes, but Dunbar's gentleness of manner and voice, together with the kindly expression upon his face, turned the scales favorably. “I am Mrs. Brian,” she said; “yes. Did you want to see me?” “On a matter of some importance. May I come in?” She nodded and led the way into the house; the door was not closed. In a living-room whereon was written a pathetic history--a history of decline from easy circumstance and respectability to poverty and utter disregard of appearances--she confronted him, setting down her basket on a table from which the remains of a fish breakfast were not yet removed. “Is your husband in?” inquired Dunbar with a subtle change of manner. “He's lying down.” The hard look was creeping again into the woman's eyes. “Will you please awake him, and tell him that I have called in regard to his license?” He thrust a card into her hand:-- DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR DUNBAR, C. I. D. NEW SCOTLAND YARD. S. W. IX THE MAN IN BLACK Mrs. Brian started back, with a wild look, a trapped look, in her eyes. “What's he done?” she inquired. “What's he done? Tom's not done anything!” “Be good enough to waken him,” persisted the inspector. “I wish to speak to him.” Mrs. Brian walked slowly from the room and could be heard entering one further along the passage. An angry snarling, suggesting that of a wild animal disturbed in its lair, proclaimed the arousing of Taximan Thomas Brian. A thick voice inquired, brutally, why the sanguinary hell he (Mr. Brian) had had his bloodstained slumbers disturbed in this gory manner and who was the vermilion blighter responsible. Then Mrs. Brian's voice mingled with that of her husband, and both became subdued. Finally, a slim man, who wore a short beard, or had omitted to shave for some days, appeared at the door of the living-room. His face was another history upon the same subject as that which might be studied from the walls, the floor, and the appointments of the room. Inspector Dunbar perceived that the shadow of the neighboring hostelry overlay this home. “What's up?” inquired the new arrival. The tone of his voice, thickened by excess, was yet eloquent of the gentleman. The barriers passed, your pariah gentleman can be the completest blackguard of them all. He spoke coarsely, and the infectious Cockney accent showed itself in his vowels; but Dunbar, a trained observer, summed up his man in a moment and acted accordingly. “Come in and shut the door!” he directed. “No”--as Mrs. Brian sought to enter behind her husband--“I wish to speak with you, privately.” “Hop it!” instructed Brian, jerking his thumb over his shoulder--and Mrs. Brian obediently disappeared, closing the door. “Now,” said Dunbar, looking the man up and down, “have you been into the depot, to-day?” “No.” “But you have heard that there's an inquiry?” “I've heard nothing. I've been in bed.”