“What are you waiting for?” I asked.

“I am waiting for the inevitable,” he replied; “for the false move that the most artful criminal invariably makes.  At present he is lying low; but presently he must make a move, and then I shall have him.”

“But he may go on lying low.  What will you do then?”

“Yes, that is the danger.  We may have to deal with the perfect villain who knows when to leave well alone.  I have never met him, but he may exist, nevertheless.”

“And then we should have to stand by and see our friends go under.”

“Perhaps,” said Thorndyke; and we both subsided into gloomy and silent reflection.

The place was peaceful and quiet, as only a backwater of London can be.  Occasional hoots from far-away tugs and steamers told of the busy life down below in the crowded Pool.  A faint hum of traffic was borne in from the streets outside the precincts, and the shrill voices of newspaper boys came in unceasing chorus from the direction of Carmelite Street.  They were too far away to be physically disturbing, but the excited yells, toned down as they were by distance, nevertheless stirred the very marrow in my bones, so dreadfully suggestive were they of those possibilities of the future at which Thorndyke had hinted.  They seemed like the sinister shadows of coming misfortunes.

Perhaps they called up the same association of ideas in Thorndyke’s mind, for he remarked presently:  “The newsvendor is abroad to-night like a bird of ill-omen.  Something unusual has happened:  some public or private calamity, most likely, and these yelling ghouls are out to feast on the remains.  The newspaper men have a good deal in common with the carrion-birds that hover over a battle-field.”

Again we subsided into silence and reflection.  Then, after an interval, I asked: 

“Would it be possible for me to help in any way in this investigation of yours?”

“That is exactly what I have been asking myself,” replied Thorndyke.  “It would be right and proper that you should, and I think you might.”

“How?” I asked eagerly.

“I can’t say off-hand; but Jervis will be going away for his holiday almost at once—­in fact, he will go off actual duty to-night.  There is very little doing; the long vacation is close upon us, and I can do without him.  But if you would care to come down here and take his place, you would be very useful to me; and if there should be anything to be done in the Bellinghams’ case, I am sure you would make up in enthusiasm for any deficiency in experience.”

“I couldn’t really take Jervis’s place,” said I, “but if you would let me help you in any way it would be a great kindness.  I would rather clean your boots than be out of it altogether.”

“Very well.  Let us leave it that you come here as soon as Barnard has done with you.  You can have Jervis’s room, which he doesn’t often use nowadays, and you will be more happy here than elsewhere, I know.  I may as well give you my latchkey now.  I have a duplicate upstairs, and you understand that my chambers are yours too from this moment.”