Number 36 proved to be such a villa, and Inspector
Dunbar contemplated it from a distance, thoughtfully.
As he stood by the door of the public house, gazing
across the street, a tired looking woman, lean and
anxious-eyed, a poor, dried up bean-pod of a woman,
appeared from the door of number 36, carrying a basket.
She walked along in the direction of the neighboring
highroad, and Dunbar casually followed her.
For some ten minutes he studied her activities, noting
that she went from shop to shop until her basket was
laden with provisions of all sorts. When she
entered a wine-and-spirit merchant’s, the detective
entered close behind her, for the place was also a
post-office. Whilst he purchased a penny stamp
and fumbled in his pocket for an imaginary letter,
he observed, with interest, that the woman had purchased,
and was loading into the hospitable basket, a bottle
of whisky, a bottle of rum, and a bottle of gin.
He left the shop ahead of her, sure, now, of his ground,
always provided that the woman proved to be Mrs. Brian.
Dunbar walked along Forth Street slowly enough to
enable the woman to overtake him. At the door
of number 36, he glanced up at the number, questioningly,
and turned in the gate as she was about to enter.
He raised his hat.
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Brian?”
Momentarily, a hard look came into the tired eyes,
but Dunbar’s gentleness of manner and voice,
together with the kindly expression upon his face,
turned the scales favorably.
“I am Mrs. Brian,” she said; “yes.
Did you want to see me?”
“On a matter of some importance. May I
come in?”
She nodded and led the way into the house; the door
was not closed.
In a living-room whereon was written a pathetic history—a
history of decline from easy circumstance and respectability
to poverty and utter disregard of appearances—she
confronted him, setting down her basket on a table
from which the remains of a fish breakfast were not
yet removed.
“Is your husband in?” inquired Dunbar
with a subtle change of manner.
“He’s lying down.”
The hard look was creeping again into the woman’s
eyes.
“Will you please awake him, and tell him that
I have called in regard to his license?”
He thrust a card into her hand:—
C. I. D.
New Scotland yard. S. W.
THE MAN IN BLACK
Mrs. Brian started back, with a wild look, a trapped
look, in her eyes.
“What’s he done?” she inquired.
“What’s he done? Tom’s not done
anything!”
“Be good enough to waken him,” persisted
the inspector. “I wish to speak to him.”
Mrs. Brian walked slowly from the room and could be
heard entering one further along the passage.
An angry snarling, suggesting that of a wild animal
disturbed in its lair, proclaimed the arousing of Taximan
Thomas Brian. A thick voice inquired, brutally,
why the sanguinary hell he (Mr. Brian) had had his
bloodstained slumbers disturbed in this gory manner
and who was the vermilion blighter responsible.
