the cheque myself.' So we all set off, the doctor, and the child's
father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the
night in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went
in a body to the bank. I gave in the cheque myself, and said I
had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of it.
The cheque was genuine."

"Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson.

"I see you feel as I do," said Mr. Enfield. "Yes, it's a bad
story. For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with,
a really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the
very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it
worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. Black mail
I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the
capers of his youth. Black Mail House is what I call the place
with the door, in consequence. Though even that, you know, is far
from explaining all," he added, and with the words fell into a
vein of musing.

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather
suddenly: "And you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives
there?"

"A likely place, isn't it?" returned Mr. Enfield. "But I
happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or
other."

"And you never asked about the--place with the door?" said
Mr. Utterson.