The Flying Squad by Edgar Wallace

THERE was no telephone at Lady's Stairs. Li Yoseph was a careful man, who never spent money unnecessarily. Long after his visitors had left he sat huddled up in a springless old arm-chair which he had drawn to the big round table. A lamp burnt at his elbow; before him were the five scrawled sheets of an unfinished letter which he had taken from a box beneath his bed.

He rose slowly and went into the tiny room, looked through the long window on to the creek. The green and red lights of a tug making for the lock gates fascinated him, and he watched it until it was out of sight. Then he took up his violin, cuddled it under his chin and drew the bow softly across the strings. For once the sound of his own music disconcerted him; he put down the violin, came back to the table, and after a while took up his pen.