I stopped the cab in the King’s Road, and getting out, had another good look round to see that I was not being followed.  Satisfied on this point, I lighted a second cigar and started off down Beaufort Street.

The stretch of embankment at the bottom seemed to have altered very little since I had last seen it.  One or two of the older houses had been done up, but Florence Court, the block of studios in which Tommy lived, was exactly as I remembered it.  The front door was open, after the usual casual fashion that prevails in Chelsea, and I walked into the square stone hall, which was lighted by a flickering gas jet.

There was a board on the right, containing the addresses of the various tenants.  Opposite No. 3 I saw the name of Mr. T.G.  Morrison, and with a slight quickening of the pulse I advanced along the corridor to Tommy’s door.

As I reached it I saw that there was a card tied to the knocker.  I knew that this was a favourite trick of Tommy’s when he was away, and with a sharp sense of disappointment I bent down to read what was written on it.  With some difficulty, for the light was damnable, I made out the following words, roughly scribbled in pencil: 

“Out of Town.  Please leave any telegrams or urgent letters at No. 4.  T.M.”

I dropped the card and stood wondering what to do.  If Tommy had some pal living next door, as seemed probable from his notice, the latter would most likely know what time he was expected to return.  For a moment I hesitated:  then retracing my steps, I walked back into the hall and glanced at the board to see who might be the tenant of No. 4.

To my surprise I found it was a woman—­a “Miss Vivien.”

At first I thought I must be wrong, for women had always been the one agreeable feature of life for which Tommy had no manner of use.  There it was, however, as plain as a pikestaff, and with a feeling of lively interest I turned back towards the flat.  Whoever Miss Vivien might be, I was determined to have a look at her.  I felt that the girl whom Tommy would leave in charge of his more important correspondence must be distinctly worth looking at.

I rang the bell, and after a short wait the door was opened by a little maid about the size and age of Gertie ’Uggins, dressed in a cap and a print frock.

“Is Miss Vivien in?” I asked boldly.

She shook her head.  “Miss Vivien’s out.  ’Ave you got an appointment?”

“No,” I said.  “I only want to know where Mr. Morrison is, and when he’s coming back.  There’s a notice on his door asking that any letters or telegrams should be left here, so I thought Miss Vivien might know.”

She looked me up and down, with a faint air of suspicion.

“’E’s away in ’is boat,” she said shortly. “’E won’t be back not till Thursday.”

So Tommy still kept up his sailing!  This at least was news, and news which had a rather special interest for me.  I wondered whether the “boat” was the same little seven-tonner, the Betty, in which we had spent so many cheerful hours together off the Crouch and the Blackwater.