“Go to 301, Wimpole Street.”
My instinct told me that I should find Vernon there.
Night was now falling. It was the hour when, to me, London presents
its dreariest aspect. The streets are not yet thronged with those who,
having worked during the day, are beginning to seek their nocturnal
pleasures. The just-lit lamps are waging a feeble combat with the last
fading rays of the flickering twilight. There is a sense of something
closing in, like a furtive enemy, upon the great city. As I neared
Wimpole Street I noticed that a fine rain was beginning to fall. The
air was damp, without freshness, oppressive. In the gloom the cabman
mistook the number and stopped at Deeming’s door. I got out quickly,
paid and dismissed him, and was about to move on to Number 301, when
it seemed to me that I heard the shrill, short whine of a dog. It
startled me, and I remained where I was, listening in the rain. The
sound was not repeated. I looked down the dismal street, but I saw no
animal. I had not been able to locate the noise. I glanced at Deeming’s
house. It was dark. Only from a window in the area shone a pale
gleam of light. After two or three minutes’ hesitation I moved away,
ascended the step of Number 301, and pressed the electric-bell. There
was no response. I pressed it again and kept my finger upon it for at
least a minute. This time my summons was answered, though in a rather
unorthodox fashion. A window on the first-floor was pushed up, and I
saw a vague face looking out at me from above.
“Vernon,” I said, “is it you?”
No voice replied, but the window was shut down, and almost directly,
through some glass above the hall-door, I saw a bright light start
up, and I heard a faint movement within. Then the door was opened and
Vernon stood before me. He looked greatly surprised.
“You?” he said. “How on earth did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t know it. Can I come in?”
“Yes. Why not?”
But he still stood in the doorway, blocking up the entrance.
“You’re alone?” he asked, rather suspiciously.
“Quite alone.”
“Come in.”