"My business is with the man—Cave! I've nothing to do with Miss Wickham, sir, nor with the old lady that's taken her in there. Cave's my mark! Queer that the young lady's gone there, no doubt, but—no affair of mine."
"It's going to be an affair of mine, then," said Perkwite. "I'm going off to the police!"
Millwaters put out a detaining hand.
"Don't, Mr. Perkwite!" he said. "To get police into a quarter like this is as bad as putting a light to dry straw. I'll tell you a better plan than that, sir—find the nearest telephone-box and call up our people—call Mr. Carless, tell him what you've seen and get him to come down and bring somebody with him. That'll be far better than calling the police in."
"Give me your telephone-number, then," said Perkwite, "and keep a strict watch while I'm away."
Millwaters repeated some figures and a letter, and Perkwite ran off up the street and toward the Whitechapel Road, anxiously seeking for a telephone booth. It was not until he had got into the main thoroughfare that he found one; he then had some slight delay in getting in communication with Carless and Driver's office; twenty minutes had elapsed by the time he got back to the dismal street. At its corner he encountered Millwaters, lounging about hands in pockets. Millwaters wagged his head.
"Here's another queer go!" he said. "There's been another arrival at Number 23—not five minutes since. Another of our little lot!"
"Who?" demanded Perkwite.
"Viner!" replied Millwaters. "Came peeping and
