"Of course, sir, you won't mind making a full statement at the police station, will you?" the officer said. "The discovery of the poor woman in the sewer the other day has shown that there is some house in which people mysteriously disappear. It is evidently to that house you were invited. You will be able to assist us to identify it." I shook my head, saying: "I fear that I'll never be able to recognise it again, for I really took no notice of its exterior. It lies somewhere east of Regent Street, that is all I know." "Depend upon it that more than one person has been swept down by the flush," declared the sewer-man. "A man's body was found down at the outfall at Beckton about three months ago. He was in evening dress, and evidently a gentleman, our foreman said, but where he came from was a complete mystery. My own idea is that the house has no direct communication with the sewer, for if it had, we should have discovered it. You say, sir, that you fell through a hole in the stairs?" I replied in the affirmative. "Exactly. You dropped down into a cellar or somewhere in the basement, and then, while you were insensible, they put you into the sewer-- through some manhole, perhaps, of which they have a duplicate key. The house must be near a manhole. That's my belief." "Then you don't think that I fell plumb into the sewer?" "Certainly not. You were thrown into the sewer while insensible down a manhole, without a doubt. It's lucky you just escaped the flush. The villain evidently knew that the flush is at eight o'clock in the morning, and that we don't go down till afterwards. And when we go, well, the victim has, of course, disappeared. By Jove! sir," added the big muscular man, standing astride in his big, high boots, "you've had a narrow shave, and no mistake." I admitted I had. I was forced to repeat my explanation to a brown-bearded, good-humoured inspector who came up, and who afterwards gave me his name as Pickering. The officer was most interested, therefore promising to call at the Tottenham Court Road police station later I gave him a card and took a hansom back to Bolton Street. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. AROUSES SUSPICIONS REGARDING SYBIL. Ellice Winsloe believed me dead. There was no doubt about that. And knowing what I now did, I intended that he should remain secure in that belief. Domville had not returned, a fact which caused me the gravest apprehensions. I recollected that defiant voice in the night. Had he also fallen a victim? Budd called in my doctor, who dressed the wound in my head and carefully bandaged it. He was curious to know the cause, but I merely explained that I had sustained a rather bad fall. Perhaps he attributed it to too much wine on the previous night--probably he did. "You'll have to rest for a day or two," he said, "you had a nasty blow." But I was uncommunicative, therefore he soon afterwards left.