Half an hour later, Ford and the piano-player entered Sowell Street
dragging the piano behind them. The amateur detective still wore
his rain-coat, but his hat he had exchanged for a cap, and, instead
of a collar, he had knotted around his bare neck a dirty kerchief.
At the end of the street they halted, and in some embarrassment
Ford raised his voice in the chorus of a song well known in the
music-halls. It was a very good voice, much too good for "open-air
work," as his companion had already assured him, but, what was of
chief importance to Ford, it carried as far as he wished it to go.
Already in Wimpole Street four coins of the realm, flung to him
from the highest windows, had testified to its power. From the end
of Sowell Street Ford moved slowly from house to house until he was
directly opposite the three in one of which he believed the girl to
be. "We will try the NEW songs here," he said.

Night had fallen, and, except for the gas-lamps, the street was
empty, and in such darkness that even without his disguise Ford ran
no risk of recognition. His plan was not new. It dated from the
days of Richard the Lion-hearted. But if the prisoner were alert
and intelligent, even though she could make no answer, Ford
believed through his effort she would gain courage, would grasp
that from the outside a friend was working toward her. All he knew
of the prisoner was that she came from Kentucky. Ford fixed his
eyes on the houses opposite, and cleared his throat. The man struck
the opening chords, and in a high barytone, and in a cockney accent
that made even the accompanist grin, Ford lifted his voice.

"The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home," he sang; "'tis
summer, and the darkies are gay."