"
Since I was always glad of an opportunity of studying my friend's
methods I immediately agreed, and ere long, leaving the lights of
the two big hotels behind, our cab was gliding down the long
slope which leads to Waterloo Station. Thence through crowded,
slummish high-roads we made our way via Lambeth to that dismal
thoroughfare, Westminster Bridge Road, with its forbidding, often
windowless, houses, and its peculiar air of desolation.
The house for which we were bound was situated at no great
distance from Kensington Park, and telling the cabman to wait,
Harley and I walked up a narrow, paved path, mounted a flight of
steps, and rang the bell beside a somewhat time-worn door, above
which was an old-fashioned fanlight dimly illuminated from
within.
A considerable interval elapsed before the door was opened by a
marvellously untidy servant girl who had apparently been
interrupted in the act of black-leading her face. Partly opening
the door, she stared at us agape, pushing back wisps of hair from
her eyes and with every movement daubing more of some mysterious
black substance upon her countenance.
"Is Mr. Bampton in?" asked Harley.
"Yus, just come in. I'm cookin' his supper."
"Tell him that two friends of his have called on rather important
business.
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