Number Seventeen | Page 3

almost classical face.
Being thus occupied, he did not glance at the passing cab, or
recognition might possibly have been mutual-- possibly, though not
probably, because, during that brief pause on the steps of the theater, he
stood beside Theydon; hence, he was half-turned toward his daughter
while they were discussing the night's immediate program.
In itself the fact that he had gone in the direction of Innesmore
Mansions rather than toward the Constitutional Club was in nowise
remarkable. Nevertheless, he had deceived his daughter-- deceived her
intentionally, and the knowledge came as a shock to his unsuspected
critic in Theydon.
He did not look the sort of man who would stoop to petty evasion of
the truth. It was as though a statue of Praxiteles, miraculously gifted
with life, should express its emotions, not in Attic Greek, but in the
up-to-date slang of the Strand.

"Well, I'm dashed!" said Theydon, or words to that effect, and his cab
sped on to the third doorway. Innesmore Mansions arranged its roomy
flats in blocks of six, and he occupied No. 18.
He held a florin in readiness; the rain, now falling heavily, did not
encourage any loitering on the pavement. For all that, he saw out of the
tail of his eye that the other man was approaching, though he had
paused to examine the numbers blazoned on a lamp over the first
doorway.
"Good night, sir, and thank you!" said the taxi driver.
The cab made off as Theydon ran up a short flight of steps. Innesmore
Mansions did not boast elevators. The flats were comfortable, but not
absurdly expensive, and their inmates climbed stairs cheerfully; at most,
they had only to mount to a second storey. Each block owned a
uniformed porter, who, on a night like this, even in May, needed
rousing from his lair by a bell if in demand.
Theydon took the stairs two at a stride, opened the door of No. 18,
which, with No. 17, occupied the top landing. He was valeted and
cooked for by an ex-sergeant of the Army Service Corps and his wife,
an admirable couple named Bates, and the male of the species appeared
before Theydon had removed coat and opera hat in the tiny hall.
"Bring my tray in fifteen minutes, Bates, and that will be all for
tonight," said Theydon.
"Yes, sir," said Bates. "Remarkable change in the weather, sir."
"Rotten. Who would have expected this downpour after such a fine
day?"
Bates took the coat and hat, and Theydon entered his sitting room, a
spacious, square apartment which faced the gardens. He had purposely
prevented Bates from coming immediately with his nightly fare, which
consisted of a glass of milk and a plate of bread and butter.

Truth to tell, the artistic temperament contains a spice of curiosity,
which is, in some sense, an exercise of the perceptive faculties.
Theydon wanted to raise a window and look out, an unusual action, and
one which, therefore, would induce Bates to wonder as to its cause.
For once in his life a man who bothered his head very little about other
people's business was puzzled, and meant to ascertain whether or not
the unknown was really calling on some resident in Innesmore
Mansions. It was a harmless bit of espionage. Theydon scarcely knew
the names of the other dwellers in his own block, and his acquaintance
did not even go that far with any of the remaining tenants of 48 fiats, all
told.
Still, to a writer, the vagaries of the tall stranger were decidedly
interesting, so he did open a window, and did thrust his head out, and
was just in time to see the owner of the limousine which would call at
the Constitutional Club in a quarter of an hour mount the steps leading
to Nos. 13-18. Somehow, the discovery gave Theydon a veritable thrill.
Could that pretty girl's father, by any chance, he coming to visit him? A
wildly improbable development had been whittled down to a
five-to-one chance. He closed the window and waited, yes, actually
waited, for the bell to ring!
The sitting room door was open, and it faced the hall door. Footsteps
sounded sharply on the slate steps of the stairway; when Theydon heard
some one climbing to the topmost landing he was almost convinced
that, as usual, the unexpected was about to happen. It did happen, but
took its own peculiar path. The unknown rang the bell of No. 17, and,
after a slight delay, was admitted.
Theydon smiled at the anticlimax. A trivial mystery had developed
along strictly orthodox lines. A rather good-looking and distinctly
well-dressed lady, a Mrs. Lester, occupied No. 17. She lived alone, too,
he believed. At any rate, he had never seen any other person, except an