Ford now believed he had found the house, found the woman, and was
eager only to get rid of his companion and, in his own person,
return to Sowell Street. But, lest the man might suspect there was
in his actions something more serious than a practical joke, he
forced himself to sing the new songs in three different streets.
Then, pretending to tire of his prank, he paid the musician and
left him. He was happy, exultant, tingling with excitement.
Good-luck had been with him, and, hoping that Gerridge's might yet
yield some clew to Pearsall, he returned there. Calling up the
London office of the REPUBLIC, he directed that one of his
assistants, an English lad named Cuthbert, should at once join him
at that hotel. Cuthbert was but just out of Oxford. He wished to
become a writer of fiction, and, as a means of seeing many kinds of
life at first hand, was in training as a "Pressman." His admiration
for Ford amounted to almost hero-worship; and he regarded an
"assignment" with his chief as a joy and an honor. Full of
enthusiasm, and as soon as a taxicab could bring him, he arrived at
Gerridge's, where, in a corner of the deserted coffee-room, Ford
explained the situation. Until he could devise a way to enter the
Sowell Street house. Cuthbert was to watch over it.

"The number of the house is forty," Ford told him; "the name on the
door-plate, Dr. Prothero. Find out everything you can about him
without letting any one catch you at it. Better begin at the
nearest chemist's. Say you are on the verge of a nervous breakdown,
and ask the man to mix you a sedative, and recommend a physician.
Show him Prothero's name and address on a piece of paper, and say
Prothero has been recommended to you as a specialist on nervous
troubles. Ask what he thinks of him. Get him to talk. Then visit