HE RINGER was back. All London knew it. Flanders Lane whispered the news under its breath; carried the tidings to sick men hiding in darkened and foul attics; to men who were not sick but must needs be hidden. And Flanders Lane believed it. The Ringer was back. "God help Meister," said somebody.
They discussed it in low tones, squatting on their steps despite the drizzle.
"He'll use a knife; he always uses a knife. Never known him to use a gun in my life," said one who had the proud distinction of having worked in a minor capacity with the redoubtable criminal.
"What's Haggitt doing down there?" asked a voice in the darkness.
There was a little ripple of laughter.
"Minding," was the laconic reply. "Old Meister's scared. Haggitt's mustard in a rough house. You wouldn't think so—used to be a boxer when he was a kid, and when they pinched him down at Purley for knocking off silver from the Conservative Club it took four busies and a copper to get him to the station."
The talk drifted irresponsibly to the prowess of Haggitt and the curious fact that the wiry ones were better mixers than the big 'uns. No breath of the talk could reach Mr. Meister across that high wall and the barred door. His slatternly housekeeper moved about the kitchen in her slippers, mumbling to herself. Haggitt sat in his room, smoking a rank pipe and meditating upon a Canadian El Dorado. The gaunt man, watching the house, had his own thoughts interrupted rudely by the soft-footed arrival of a policeman.
"Hullo, young feller, what are you doing here?"
The uniformed man looked suspiciously at the other.
"Just loafing around."
"You've been loafing around here for a few hours: I've been watching you," said Constable Harrap, a notable character in these parts. "What's your lay?"
"I've got no lay." The gaunt man turned to go.
"Here!" An authoritative voice summoned him back. "What are you doing watching this house?"
"Me?" A harsh little laugh. "Oh, I'm a detective."
"A what!" Constable Harrap, who was hardened to bizarre excuses, reached out his hand. "Let me see your card, officer," he said sarcastically.
"Haven't got it with me."
"Private, eh? Now, young man, take a word of advice—hop it!"
Without a word the gaunt man turned and went swiftly down the street and was lost in the shadows. Constable Harrap spent the rest of his duty debating whether or not he should have held the man on suspicion.
The gaunt stranger went over the bridge into Trafalgar Road—Greenwich is loyal to the memory of its great admiral—and turning round by the church where Wolfe is buried, though few know it (it is a long way from the heights of Quebec to the church where the cars stop), crossing the road, went up a little street, and, stopping before the last house, opened the door and went in.
Ten minutes later he came out again, so completely changed in appearance that even Harrap's sharp eyes did not recognise him, though the man passed him at the foot of the bridge. This time the stranger avoided the front of the house. Turning down on the alley, which was flanked on one side by the wall of Mr. Meister's garden and on the other by a row of small houses, he came to Little Holland Street, which runs parallel with Flanders Lane. Here Meister's wall turned abruptly. Halfway up was a high gate, the top bristling with spikes. In olden days this was the entrance to the stables, long since converted into a potting shed. Like most stable entrances, it had a smaller door cut into one of the gates.
The stranger looked up and down the dark road. In point of poverty Little Holland Street had been one grade lower than Flanders Lane until some enterprising property speculator had bought up the cottages and converted them into lock-up garages for the use of tradesmen in the neighbourhood.
All was still and quiet. A light showed at a window halfway up the street; the quarters of some chauffeur who had come home early. Taking a key from his pocket, the stranger tried the door; the lock turned smoothly, and in another second he was in Meister's garden and had closed the door behind him.
He went forward cautiously, feeling for the obstruction of wire or thread, but evidently the lawyer had not yet taken the precaution of wiring his grounds, and in a minute the man stood in view of the house. Mr. Meister was in: the black shadows of the newly fixed bars showed through the chintz curtains. He heard a raucous voice near at hand singing a popular song in the most doleful manner. Haggitt, he guessed, and presently caught a glimpse of Mr. Meister's new attendant through the barred windows of the scullery.