"Good-bye," said Viner. He hurried away into the hall, snatched up a hat, and letting himself out of the house, ran to the nearest cab-stand and beckoned to a chauffeur who often took him about. "I want to get along to Mirrapore Street, Whitechapel Road," he said, as he sprang into the car. "Do you know whereabouts it is?"
The chauffeur knitted his brows and shook his head.
"There's a sight of small streets running off Whitechapel Road, both sides, sir," he answered. "It'll be one of them—I'll find it. Mirrapore Street? Right, sir."
"Get there as quickly as possible," said Viner. "The quicker the better."
It was not until he had gone a good half of his journey that Viner began to wonder whatever it was that had taken Miss Wickham and her chaperon down to the far boundaries of the City—or, indeed, farther. Mrs. Killenhall had said the City, but Viner knew his London well enough to know that Whitechapel Road lies without the City confines. She had said, too, that a man who knew Mr. Ashton was there with her and Miss Wickham—what man, wondered Viner, and what doing in a district like that toward which he was speeding?
The chauffeur did the run to Whitechapel Road in unusually good time; it was little more than two o'clock when the car passed the parish church. But the man had gone from one end of the road to the other, from the end of High Street to the beginning of Mile End Road, without success, when he stopped and looked in at his passenger.
"Can't see no street of that name on either side,
