regard his predicament with respect; even the proprietor, Mr.
Gerridge himself, was ill at ease. Ford returned to his room, on
the second floor of the hotel, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

In connecting Pearsall with Gerridge's, both the police and himself
had failed. Of this there were three possible explanations: that
the girl who wrote the letter was in error, that the letter was a
hoax, that the proprietor of the hotel, for some reason, was
protecting Pearsall, and had deceived both Ford and Scotland Yard.
On the other hand, without knowing why the girl believed Pearsall
would be found at Gerridge's, it was reasonable to assume that in
so thinking she had been purposely misled. The question was, should
he or not dismiss Gerridge's as a possible clew, and at once devote
himself to finding the house in Sowell Street? He decided for the
moment at least, to leave Gerridge's out of his calculations, but,
as an excuse for returning there, to still retain his room. He at
once started toward Sowell Street, and in order to find out if any
one from the hotel were following him, he set forth on foot. As
soon as he made sure he was not spied upon, he covered the
remainder of the distance in a cab.

He was acting on the supposition that the letter was no practical
joke, but a genuine cry for help. Sowell Street was a scene set for
such an adventure. It was narrow, mean- looking, the stucco
house-fronts, soot-stained, cracked, and uncared-for, the steps
broken and unwashed. As he entered it a cold rain was falling, and
a yellow fog that rolled between the houses added to its
dreariness. It was now late in the afternoon, and so overcast the
sky that in many rooms the gas was lit and the curtains drawn.