Читать книгу On the Brink of a Chasm: A record of plot and passion онлайн

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“No time like the present,” he said to himself. “My blood is up; I will not wait until the morning. What I have to do I will do quickly.

“Drive to Tottenham Court Road, and put me down at the corner of Goodge Street,” said Tarbot to his driver.

He stepped into the hansom, the man whipped up his horse, and a few moments later the doctor was walking quietly down Goodge Street. It happened to be Saturday night, and Goodge Street at that hour was the reverse of aristocratic. Torches were flaring on piled-up barrows holding every sort of fruit. Women were screaming and chaffering, men were lounging about and smoking, children got in the way, were knocked over, and cried out.

Tarbot in his light overcoat was a strange figure in the midst of the others. One or two people remarked him, a woman laughed, and a girl came behind him and pushed his hat over his eyes. A peal of laughter followed this witticism. Tarbot did not take the least notice, but walked on quickly.

At last he stopped at a corner house which was different from its neighbors. It was newly built, and looked clean and respectable. It was, in short, a great block of people’s buildings. He went up the winding stairs, and presently sounded a bell on a door which was painted dark green, and on which the number 47 shone out in vivid white. There was a brass plate below the number on which were inscribed the words—