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THE clock in the tower of St. Botolph's was booming the hour after midnight, as Acting-Sergeant Philip Lashbrook came slowly along Orford street, having accomplished the mission delegated to him by his superior officer, and, therefore, being now more or less off duty, although he was still wearing the badge of his office. So far as he could see, there was not a soul in sight, not a sound to be heard either, except the distant hum of traffic that came from Regent Crescent on his far right. He gave a casual, but professional eye to the various shops as he walked along. For Orford street is one of fashion, and some of the establishments there are of world-wide renown. In a few moments now he would be back at headquarters, and then free to seek his lodgings.
He came at length to the spot where Mansfield street crosses Orford street at right angles. Along this former thoroughfare he flashed a fleeting glance, and then, crossing the road, was about to resume his patrol on the far side of Orford street, when he was suddenly pulled up by a call that seemed to come to him from some spot in Mansfield street, where he could dimly make out the figure of a man standing there.