For half an hour Desmond wandered in a desultory fashion along the quiet roads of natty houses with brightly painted doors and shining brass knockers. He had no definite objective; but he hoped rather vaguely to pick up some clue that might lead him to Mrs. Malplaquet's. He walked slowly along surveying the houses and scrutinizing the faces of the passers-by who were few and far between, yet without coming any nearer the end of his search.
It was now growing dusk. Enthroned on the summit of the hill the water-tower stood out hard and clear against the evening sky.
Desmond, who hid lost his bearings somewhat in the course of his wanderings, came to a full stop irresolutely, where two streets crossed, thinking that he would retrace his footsteps to the main-road on the chance of picking up a taxi to take him back to town. He chose one of the streets at random; but it proved to be a crescent and brought him back practically to the spot he had started from. Thereupon, he took the other and followed it up, ignoring various side-turnings which he feared might be pitfalls like the last: But the second road was as bad as the first. It was a cul de sac and brought Desmond face to face with a blank wall.
He turned and looked about him for somebody of whom to ask the way. But the street was entirely deserted. He seemed to be on the very summit of the hill; for all the roads were a-tilt. Though the evening was falling fast, no light appeared in any of the houses and the street lamps were yet unlit. Save for the distant bourdon of the traffic which rose to his ears like the beating of the surf, the breeze rustling the bushes in the gardens was the only sound.
Desmond started to walk back slowly the way he had come.
Presently, his eyes caught the gleam of a light from above a front door. When he drew level with it, he saw that a gas-jet was burning in the fanlight over the entrance to a neat little two-story house which stood by itself in a diminutive garden. As by this time he was thoroughly sick of wandering aimlessly about, he went up to the neat little house and rang the bell.
A maid-servant in a cap and apron who seemed to be drawn to the scale of the house, such an insignificant little person she was, opened the door.
"Oh, sir," she exclaimed when she saw him, "was it about the rooms?"And she pointed up at the fan-light where, for the first time, Desmond noticed a printed card with the inscription-:
"Furnished Rooms to Let."
The servant's unexpected question put an idea into Desmond's head. He could not return to the club, he reflected, since he was supposed to be killed in action. Why not take a room in this house in the heart of the enemy's country and spend some days on the watch for Mrs. Malplaquet or for any clue that might lead him to her?
So Desmond answered, yes, it was about the rooms he had come.
Promising that she would tell "the missus," the little servant showed him into a tiny sitting-room, very clean and bright, with blue cretonne curtains and a blue carpet and an engraving of "King Cophetua and The Beggar Maid" over the mantelpiece.
Directly you came into the room, everything in it got up and shouted "Tottenham Court Road."Then the door opened and, with a great tinkling and rustling, a stoutish, brisk-looking woman sailed in. The tinkling proceeded frown the large amount of cheap jewelry with which she was adorned; the rustling from a black and shiny glace silk dress.
With every movement she made the large drops she wore in her ears chinked and were answered by a melodious chime from the charm bangles she had on her wrists.
