this quarter. Greeks, Hitalians--all sorts."

Queer sensation this, of being glad of a policeman's confidential tone!

"Well, good-night!"

"Good-night, sir. Good-night!"

He looked back from Borrow Street. The policeman was still standing
there holding up his lantern, so that its light fell into the archway,
as if trying to read its secret.

Now that he had seen this dark, deserted spot, the chances seemed to him
much better. "Pockets inside out!" Either Larry had had presence of mind
to do a very clever thing, or someone had been at the body before the
police found it. That was the more likely. A dead backwater of a place.
At three o'clock--loneliest of all hours--Larry's five minutes' grim
excursion to and fro might well have passed unseen! Now, it all depended
on the girl; on whether Laurence had been seen coming to her or going
away; on whether, if the man's relationship to her were discovered, she
could be relied on to say nothing. There was not a soul in Borrow Street
now; hardly even a lighted window; and he took one of those rather
desperate decisions only possible to men daily accustomed to the instant
taking of responsibility. He would go to her, and see for himself. He
came to the door of Forty-two, obviously one of those which are only
shut at night, and tried the larger key. It fitted, and he was in a
gas-lighted passage, with an oil-clothed floor, and a single door to his
left. He stood there undecided. She must be made to understand that he
knew everything. She must not be told more than that he was a friend of
Larry's. She must not be frightened, yet must be forced to give her very