CHAPTER XIX

A few afternoons later George Henry descended from his automobile before a certain number in a long terrace of untidy but pretentious-looking residences, in a suburb which had ceased to even call itself residential. He passed up a narrow strip of path, overhung with weeds, carefully avoided glancing into an unwholesome-looking area, and was admitted to the house after a brief delay by a slatternly looking maid-of-all-work. After a few minutes' waiting in an apartment which showed signs, olfactory and otherwise, of …