"I expect I shall get my amusement out of it," he answered.
"Of course, we may not be able to get into the house, but we'll go
together. But you promise not to open your mouth or raise a finger?"
Beresford pushed away the deed-box and held out his hand.
"I promise," he said.
It was a wet, starless night when we arrived in Milford Square at ten
o'clock. I dismissed my taxi, rang the bell and waited. There was no
answer, and I rang again. It was inconceivable that, to keep me out of
the house, Grayle had disconnected the front door bell or given
instructions that it was to be disregarded on principle.
"I'm afraid I've brought you on a fool's errand," I said to Beresford,
as I rang a third time.
We looked to right and left for a second bell, an area door or any other
promise of admission. Two interested maids from a neighbouring house
joined our search-party, and a constable flashed his bull's-eye
impartially on us all and asked if we had lost anything.
"I'm trying to get into this house," I said, pointing to Grayle's door,
"and I can't make anyone hear."
He pondered for a moment and then led us into the Brompton Road.
"There was a light in the studio, when I came on duty. You may be able
to get in that way."
We groped through a narrow passage to a wooden door set in a high brick
wall. Over our heads I could see the outline of two windows, securely
curtained but with a phosphorescent border. There was neither bell nor
knocker to the door, but I battered resonantly on the thick, blistered
panels with my umbrella. For perhaps two minutes there was no answering
sound, and I banged again. This time I was rewarded by the slam of a
door, the noise of feet on a stone passage and the rasp of a heavy key.
The door opened, and my eyes, which were grown used by now to the
darkness, recognised the massive outlines of Guy Bannerman.
"Hullo? Who are you? What d'you want?" he demanded sharply.