The Lost House | Page 8

impersonate a detective, and insist upon his right to search for
stolen property. As he rejected these and a dozen schemes as fantastic,
his brain and eyes were still alert for any chance advantage that the
street might offer. But the minutes passed into an hour, and no one had

entered any of the three houses, no one had left them. In the lower
stories, from behind the edges of the blinds, lights appeared, but of the
life within there was no sign. Until he hit upon a plan of action, Ford
felt there was no longer anything to be gained by remaining in Sowell
Street. Already the answer to his cable might have arrived at his rooms;
at Gerridge's he might still learn something of Pearsall. He decided to
revisit both these places, and, while so engaged, to send from his office
one of his assistants to cover the Sowell Street houses. He cast a last,
reluctant look at the closed blinds, and moved away. As he did so, two
itinerant musicians dragging behind them a small street piano on
wheels turned the corner, and, as the rain had now ceased, one of them
pulled the oil-cloth covering from the instrument and, seating himself
on a camp- stool at the curb, opened the piano. After a discouraged
glance at the darkened windows, the other, in a hoarse, strident tenor, to
the accompaniment of the piano, began to sing. The voice of the man
was raucous, penetrating. It would have reached the recesses of a tomb.
"She sells sea-shells on the sea-shore," the vocalist wailed. "The shells
she sells are sea-shells, I'm sure."
The effect was instantaneous. A window was flung open, and an
indignant householder with one hand frantically waved the musicians
away, and with the other threw them a copper coin.
At the same moment Ford walked quickly to the piano and laid a
half-crown on top of it.
"Follow me to Harley Street," he commanded. "Don't hurry. Take your
time. I want you to help me in a sort of practical joke. It's worth a
sovereign to you."
He passed on quickly. When he glanced behind him, he saw the two
men, fearful lest the promised fortune might escape them, pursuing him
at a trot. At Harley Street they halted, breathless.
"How long," Ford demanded of the one who played the piano, "will it
take you to learn the accompaniment to a new song?"
"While you're whistling it," answered the man eagerly.
"And I'm as quick at a tune as him," assured the other anxiously. "I can
sing----"
"You cannot," interrupted Ford. "I'm going to do the singing myself.
Where is there a public-house near here where we can hire a back room,
and rehearse?"

Half an hour later, Ford and the piano-player entered Sowell Street
dragging the piano behind them. The amateur detective still wore his
rain-coat, but his hat he had exchanged for a cap, and, instead of a
collar, he had knotted around his bare neck a dirty kerchief. At the end
of the street they halted, and in some embarrassment Ford raised his
voice in the chorus of a song well known in the music-halls. It was a
very good voice, much too good for "open-air work," as his companion
had already assured him, but, what was of chief importance to Ford, it
carried as far as he wished it to go. Already in Wimpole Street four
coins of the realm, flung to him from the highest windows, had testified
to its power. From the end of Sowell Street Ford moved slowly from
house to house until he was directly opposite the three in one of which
he believed the girl to be. "We will try the NEW songs here," he said.
Night had fallen, and, except for the gas-lamps, the street was empty,
and in such darkness that even without his disguise Ford ran no risk of
recognition. His plan was not new. It dated from the days of Richard
the Lion-hearted. But if the prisoner were alert and intelligent, even
though she could make no answer, Ford believed through his effort she
would gain courage, would grasp that from the outside a friend was
working toward her. All he knew of the prisoner was that she came
from Kentucky. Ford fixed his eyes on the houses opposite, and cleared
his throat. The man struck the opening chords, and in a high barytone,
and in a cockney accent that made even the accompanist grin, Ford
lifted his voice.
"The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home," he sang; "'tis
summer, and the darkies are gay."
He finished the song, but there was no sign. For all the impression he
had made upon Sowell Street, he might have been singing in his
chambers. "And