We turned out of Wych Street into the arched passage leading into New Inn, and, halting at the half-door of the lodge, perceived a stout, purple-faced man crouching over the fire, coughing violently.  He held up his hand to intimate that he was fully occupied for the moment, and we accordingly waited for his paroxysm to subside.  At length he turned towards us, wiping his eyes, and inquired our business.

“Mr. Stephen Blackmore,” said Thorndyke, “has given me permission to look over his chambers.  He said that he would mention the matter to you.”

“So he has, sir,” said the porter; “but he has just taken the key himself to go to the chambers.  If you walk across the Inn you’ll find him there; it’s on the farther side; number thirty-one, second floor.”

We made our way across to the house indicated, the ground floor of which was occupied by a solicitor’s offices and was distinguished by a good-sized brass plate.  Although it had now been dark some time there was no light on the lower stairs, but we encountered on the first-floor landing a man who had just lit the lamp there.  Thorndyke halted to address him.

“Can you tell me who occupies the chambers on the third floor?”

“The third floor has been empty about three months,” was the reply.

“We are going up to look at the chambers on the second floor,” said Thorndyke.  “Are they pretty quiet?”

“Quiet!” exclaimed the man.  “Lord bless you the place is like a cemetery for the deaf and dumb.  There’s the solicitors on the ground floor and the architects on the first floor.  They both clear out about six, and when they’re gone the house is as empty as a blown hegg.  I don’t wonder poor Mr. Blackmore made away with his-self.  Livin’ up there all alone, it must have been like Robinson Crusoe without no man Friday and not even a blooming goat to talk to.  Quiet!  It’s quiet enough, if that’s what you want.  Wouldn’t be no good to me.”

With a contemptuous shake of the head, he turned and retired down the next flight, and, as the echoes of his footsteps died away we resumed our ascent.

“So it would appear,” Thorndyke commented, “that when Jeffrey Blackmore came home that last evening, the house was empty.”

Arrived on the second-floor landing, we were confronted by a solid-looking door on the lintel of which the deceased man’s name was painted in white lettering which still looked new and fresh.  Thorndyke knocked at the door, which was at once opened by Stephen Blackmore.

“I haven’t wasted any time before taking advantage of your permission, you see,” my colleague said as we entered.

“No, indeed,” said Stephen; “you are very prompt.  I have been rather wondering what kind of information you expect to gather from an inspection of these rooms.”

Thorndyke smiled genially, amused, no doubt, by the similarity of Stephen’s remarks to those of mine which he had so recently criticized.