Dunbar handed him the bulging notebook, and Sergeant Sowerby lowered his
inadequate eyebrows, thoughtfully, whilst he scanned the evidence of
Mr. Debnam. Then, returning the book to his superior, and adjusting the
peculiar bowler firmly upon his head, he set out.

Dunbar glanced through some papers--apparently reports--which lay upon
the table, penciled comments upon two of them, and then, consulting his
notebook once more in order to refresh his memory, started off for Forth
Street, Brixton.

Forth Street, Brixton, is a depressing thoroughfare. It contains small,
cheap flats, and a number of frowsy looking houses which give one the
impression of having run to seed. A hostelry of sad aspect occupies a
commanding position midway along the street, but inspires the traveler
not with cheer, but with lugubrious reflections upon the horrors of
inebriety. The odors, unpleasantly mingled, of fried bacon and paraffin
oil, are wafted to the wayfarer from the porches of these family
residences.

Number 36 proved to be such a villa, and Inspector Dunbar contemplated
it from a distance, thoughtfully. As he stood by the door of the
public house, gazing across the street, a tired looking woman, lean and
anxious-eyed, a poor, dried up bean-pod of a woman, appeared from the
door of number 36, carrying a basket. She walked along in the direction
of the neighboring highroad, and Dunbar casually followed her.

For some ten minutes he studied her activities, noting that she went
from shop to shop until her basket was laden with provisions of all
sorts. When she entered a wine-and-spirit merchant's, the detective