six o'clock in the morning Ayscough was at a small house in a shabby street in Kentish Town, interviewing a woman who had just risen to light her fire, and was surlily averse to calling up a husband, who, she said, had not been in bed until nearly four. She was not any more pleased when Ayscough informed her of his professional status—but the man was fetched down.
"You drove a foreigner—a Japanese-to the mortuary in Paddington last night?" said Ayscough, plunging straight into business, after telling the man who he was. "I saw him—just a glimpse of him—in your cab, and I took your number. Now, where did you first pick him up?"
"Outside the Underground, at King's Cross," replied the driver promptly.
This was precisely what Ayscough had expected; so far, so good; his own prescience was proving sure.
"Anything wrong, mister?" asked the driver.
"There may be," said Ayscough. "Well—you picked him up there, and drove him straight to the mortuary?"
"No—I didn't," said the man. "We made a call first. Euston. He went in there, and, I should say, went to the left luggage office, 'cause he came back again with a small suit-case—just a little 'un. Then we went on to that mortuary."
Euston! A small suit-case! More facts—Ayscough made notes of them.
"Well," he said, "and when you drove away from the mortuary, where did you go then?"
"Oxford Circus," answered the driver, "set him down
