"
"All right," said the black-faced one. "What name is it?"
"No name. Just say two friends of his."
Treating us to a long, vacant stare and leaving us standing on
the step, the maid (in whose hand I perceived a greasy fork)
shuffled along the passage and began to mount the stairs. An
unmistakable odour of frying sausages now reached my nostrils.
Harley glanced at me quizzically, but said nothing until the
Cinderella came stumbling downstairs again. Without returning to
where we stood:
"Go up," she directed. "Second floor, front. Shut the door, one
of yer."
She disappeared into gloomy depths below as Harley and I, closing
the door behind us, proceeded to avail ourselves of the
invitation. There was very little light on the staircase, but we
managed to find our way to a poorly furnished bed-sitting-room
where a small table was spread for a meal. Beside the table, in
a chintz-covered arm-chair, a thick-set young man was seated
smoking a cigarette and having a copy of the Daily Telegraph upon
his knees.
He was a very typical lower middle-class, nothing-in-particular
young man, but there was a certain truculence indicated by his
square jaw, and that sort of self-possession which sometimes
accompanies physical strength was evidenced in his manner as,
tossing the paper aside, he stood up.
Pages:
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231