"Openly quickly!" I exclaimed. "It is I."
The door opened and I dashed into the hall and gasped out that the
Indian was there--outside--what should I do?
Dorcas frowned. "There was someone in the house, then!" she exclaimed
"Oh, if I had only known it! But go to the doctor at once, and then
get back with those keys."
"And the Indian?"
"Will probably get at Judkins Barraclough at the earliest opportunity
and warn him."
"You don't think the Indian is Barraclough disguised, now, then?"
"No--that's impossible. I've been off the track a little, but
I'm on it right enough now. Get away now, every minute is of value."
Dorcas shut the door and I went down the steps again.
I looked about for the Indian. While I was talking to Dorcas he had
slipped out of the doorway and disappeared. I found the cab waiting,
drove to the doctor in Endsleigh Gardens, left the note, and then
told the cabman to drive me with all speed to the top of Berkeley
Square.
It was half-past five when I slipped the keys quietly into Mr.
Barraclough's letter box. It was six o'clock when the cab stopped
again in Mabledon Place.
There were one or two people passing through the Crescent--people
on the way to work. Outside some of the houses sleepy-looking girls
were shaking the mats and beginning the household duties of the day.
A policeman passed me and bade me good morning. I returned his
salutation and walked past No. --- to the end of the Crescent. When
I looked round he had sauntered away, and I returned and rang the
bell.
Dorcas greeted me with a smile.
"Come along," she said, "come and have some coffee, for you must
be faint."
"But the woman?"
"The doctor is with her and is bringing her round. I hope presently
she will be able to give us a little information."
Dorcas led the way and I followed her. To my astonishment, instead
of going downstairs, where I presumed the coffee would be waiting
for us, she went upstairs to the second floor.
Dorcas opened a door and I found myself in a little back room that
had evidently been inhabited. On a small Oriental table was a French
coffee-making machine, and underneath it a spirit lamp. In the corner
lay a couple of Oriental rugs, and on a small table by the side of it
a box of cigarettes.
"I've taken the liberty of using Mr. Aleem Mohammed's private
apartments," said Dorcas. "He evidently furnished them for himself
before he made his preparations for a lady visitor below."
"Then he was here all the time?"
"I don't think he was here that night when we nearly knocked the
neighbourhood up. But he probably came in later, and he was certainly
here last night when we were examining the house. It was only when we
began to make a noise that he became aware of our presence. When he
heard the locked door of the room on the first floor go, he let
himself out, and kept watch from the outside."
"Why?"
"Probably to see what we were going to do."
"But Judkins Barraclough we know has the key of the house. How did
the Indian get in?"
"That's simple," replied Dorcas. "They had a latchkey each."
I flung myself down on the rugs and drank the coffee which Dorcas
had made.
The coffee revived my drooping energies, and set my brain working
again. If the Indian was living in the house and had escaped, what
was there to prove that not he but Barraclough was the person who
was helping the unhappy creature downstairs to her death?