friend standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, and a smile of complete satisfaction upon his face.
“How’s this, Watson?” he cried, picking up the paper from the table. “‘High red house with white stone facings. Third floor. Second window left. After dusk.—G.’ That is definite enough. I think after breakfast we must make a little reconnaissance of Mrs. Warren’s neighbourhood. Ah, Mrs. Warren! what news do you bring us this morning?”
Our client had suddenly burst into the room with an explosive energy which told of some new and momentous development.
“It’s a police matter, Mr. Holmes!” she cried. “I’ll have no more of it! He shall pack out of that with his baggage. I would have gone straight up and told him so, only I thought it was but fair to you to take your opinion first. But I’m at the end of my patience, and when it comes to knocking my old man about—”
“Knocking Mr. Warren about?”
“Using him roughly, anyway.”
“But who used him roughly?”
“Ah! that’s what we want to know! It was this morning, sir. Mr. Warren is a timekeeper at Morton and Waylight’s, in Tottenham Court Road. He has to be out of the house before seven. Well, this morning he had not gone ten paces down the road when two men came up be-
