preposterous search for Garridebs? It’s worth our attention, for, granting that the man is a rascal, he is certainly a complex and ingenious one. We must now find out if our other correspondent is a fraud also. Just ring him up, Watson.”
I did so, and heard a thin, quavering voice at the other end of the line.
“Yes, yes, I am Mr. Nathan Garrideb. Is Mr. Holmes there? I should very much like to have a word with Mr. Holmes.”
My friend took the instrument and I heard the usual syncopated dialogue.
“Yes, he has been here. I understand that you don’t know him. … How long? … Only two days! … Yes, yes, of course, it is a most captivating prospect. Will you be at home this evening? I suppose your namesake will not be there? … Very good, we will come then, for I would rather have a chat without him. … Dr. Watson will come with me. … I understand from your note that you did not go out often. … Well, we shall be round about six. You need not mention it to the American lawyer. … Very good. Goodbye!”
It was twilight of a lovely spring evening, and even Little Ryder Street, one of the smaller offshoots from the Edgware Road, within a stone-cast of old Tyburn Tree of evil memory, looked golden and wonderful in the slanting rays of the setting sun. The particular house to which we were directed was a large, old-fashioned, Early Georgian edifice, with a flat brick face broken only by two deep bay windows on the ground floor. It was on this ground floor that our client lived, and, indeed, the low windows proved to be the front of the huge room in which he spent his waking hours. Holmes pointed as we passed to the small brass plate which bore the curious name.
“Up some years, Watson,” he remarked, indicating its discoloured surface. “It’s his real name, anyhow, and that is something to note.”