Explore "The Tickencote Treasure" by William Le Queux on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
ON the night following the regrettable disaster to the _Seahorse_ I was back again in the cheap and rather comfortable rooms I had occupied for a couple of years or so in Keppel Street, Chelsea. It is a thoroughfare in which nearly every house exhibits the enticing legend, "Apartments to Let," mostly in permanent, neatly-framed signs of black and gold.
Mrs. Richardson, my landlady, was "full" and had been for a year past, so No. 83, where I had diggings, was a quiet, eminently respectable house, a fitting, residence for a man of my serious calling. When, however, I returned with the Mysterious Man in a well-worn seaman's suit, unkempt head, and his sword in hand instead of a cane, Mrs. Richardson looked askance at me.