CHAPTER XIII.

TODD’S HOME

“My dear,” said Larry gently, “you really must go home and go to bed.”

Diana shook her head laughingly.

“I really am not tired, Mr. Holt,” she said. “Won’t you let me go along with you? You know, you promised to keep me in this case.”

“I didn’t promise to keep you up all night,” he said good-humouredly, “and you’re looking a wreck. I don’t think I shall do anything much more this morning--except sleep,” said he. “Now, off you go. There’s a providential taxi crawling this way,” he said, and whistled.

She was feeling desperately tired, and she knew his words were the words of wisdom. But she made one last ineffectual protest. Larry was adamant. The cab drew up and he opened the door for her.

“Sergeant Harvey will go home with you,” he said, and drew Harvey aside. “Go upstairs to Miss Ward’s room, search it thoroughly, and remain on duty on the lower landing until you’re relieved.”

He watched the cab out of sight, then turned to the second officer who had accompanied him.

“Now, sergeant,” he said, “I think we will investigate Todd’s Home.”

It was some time before they found another taxi, and Larry had a constitutional objection to walking. Six o’clock was booming out from the church towers when the cab put them down before Todd’s Home. It was a bleak, unlovely house, the windows covered with blue-wash. A long black board, covering the width of the house, was inscribed in faded gold letters: “Todd’s Home for the Indigent Blind.”

Larry expected he would have some difficulty in making the inmates hear, but he was mistaken; for hardly had he knocked when the door was opened by a little man.

“That’s not Toby and not Harry and not Old Joe,” he said loudly. “Who is it?”

Larry saw that he was blind.

“I want to see the superintendent,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said the man in a tone of respect. “Just wait here, will you?”

He went down a long passage full of turns and angles, so that he disappeared from sight, and presently they heard him shuffling back in his slippered feet, and behind him walked a tall man wearing a white clerical collar. His eyes were covered with dark blue glasses, and he, too, felt his way along the passage.

“Won’t you please come in?” he said in an educated voice. He was a man of powerful build, and his clean-shaven face denoted a strength of character out of the ordinary. “I am John Dearborn--the Rev. John Dearborn,” he explained as he led the way. “We have few visitors here, alas! I’m afraid Todd’s Home is not very popular.”

He did not speak resentfully but cheerfully, and as one who had a great spirit. Nor did he make allusion to the early hour they had chosen.

“It is a little farther along, gentlemen,” he said. “I know there are two of you because I can hear your footsteps. Mind the step--this way.”

He pushed open a door and they went in. The room was cosily furnished, and the first thing that Larry noticed was the bare condition of the walls; and then he remembered, with a little pang, that the blind have no need for pictures.

A curious little instrument stood by the side of the table, which was the principal article of furniture in the room, and a tiny wheel was spinning as they came in. The superintendent walked unerringly to the machine. There was the snap of a button and the wheel ceased to revolve.

“This is my dictating machine,” he explained, turning to them with a smile. “I am engaged in literary work, and I can dictate to this cylinder, which is then transferred to an operator who types from my voice.”

Larry expressed polite interest.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the Rev. John Dearborn as he seated himself, “to what am I indebted for the honour of this visit?”

“I am an officer from Scotland Yard,” said Larry, “and my name is Holt.”

The other inclined his head.

“I hope none of my unfortunate men have been getting into trouble?” he asked.

“I don’t exactly know yet,” said Larry. “At present, I am searching for a man called Blind Jake.”

“Blind Jake?” repeated the other slowly. “I don’t think we have had such a name in the Home since I have been in charge. I’ve been here for four years,” he explained. “It used to be run, and very badly run, by a man who got together quite the worst type of blind men in London. You know that the blind are wonderful and heroic, and the majority of them are positively an inspiration to those who have sight. But there are a class of men so afflicted who are the scum of the earth. You have probably heard of the Dark Eyes?”

“Not until this morning,” said Larry, and the other nodded.

“We have got rid of those people, and we have now very respectable old hawkers who come here, where everything is done for them. You would like to see the home?”

“You don’t know Blind Jake?”

“I have never heard of him,” said the Rev. John Dearborn, “but if you will come with me, we will make inquiries.”

The Home consisted of four dormitories and a common room; and in this latter, reeking with tobacco smoke, sat the inmates of the Home. Larry looked round and could scarcely repress a shiver.

“Just one moment,” said Mr. Dearborn, when he had ushered the two men into the passage. He returned shortly, shaking his head.

“Nobody there knows Blind Jake, though one has heard of him.”

They ascended to the first dormitory.

“I don’t suppose you want to see any more,” said Mr. Dearborn.

Larry raised his head.

“I thought I heard somebody groaning.”

“Yes, yes, a sad case,” said the superintendent. “There are cubicles upstairs for those men who can afford to pay a little more than their fellows. In one of them we have a man who, I fear, is going out of his mind. I have had to report the case to the local authorities.”

“May we go upstairs?” asked Larry.

“With pleasure,” said the Rev. Dearborn, after a moment’s hesitation. “The only thing I am afraid of,” he said as he led the way, “is that the language of this man will distress you.”

In a little cubicle lay a wizened man of sixty, who tossed desperately to and fro in his bed, and all the time he was talking, talking to some invisible person. And Larry, watching him, wondered.

“Brute! Coward!” muttered the man on the bed. “You’ll swing for it, mark my words! You’ll swing for it!”

“It is very terrible,” said the Rev. John Dearborn, turning away and shaking his head. “This way, gentlemen.”

But Larry did not move.

“All right, Jake, you’ll suffer, too! Mark my words, you’ll suffer! Let them do their dirty work! I didn’t put the paper in his pocket, I tell you.”

Larry took a step into the cubicle, and, bending over, shook the man.

“Let go my arm, you’re hurting it,” said the man on the bed, and Larry released his hold.

“Wake up,” he said, “I want to speak to you.”

But the man went talking on, and Larry shook him again.

“Leave me alone,” growled the old man. “I don’t want to have any more trouble.”

“What is your name?” asked Larry.

“I don’t want any more trouble,” said the man.

“He’s quite delirious,” said John Dearborn. “He is under the impression that he’s accused of a practical joke on one of his friends downstairs.”

“But he said ‘Jake,’” said Larry.

“There is a Jake below--Jake Horley. Would you like to see him? He’s a little fellow and rather amusing.”

Disappointed, Larry walked down the stairs and took farewell of his conductor.

“I am very glad to have had a visit from the police,” said John Dearborn. “I only wish that we could persuade other people to come to us. You have seen some of our work and some of the difficulties with which we are faced. Before you go,” he added, “perhaps you will tell me why you are seeking Blind Jake? The men will be consumed with curiosity to know the reason for this police visit.”

“That is easy to satisfy,” smiled Larry. “There is a charge against him made by a woman to the effect that she was employed by him to commit a felony.”

The police officer who was with him gasped, for it is not the practice of the police to give away their informants.

Larry opened the door himself and paused with his hand upon the handle.

“Pardon my asking what may be a very painful question, Mr. Dearborn,” he said gently. “Are you afflicted----?”

“Oh, yes,” said the other cheerfully, “I am quite blind. I wear these glasses from sheer vanity. I think they improve my appearance.” He laughed softly.

“Good-bye,” said Larry, shaking his disengaged hand, and then he pulled the door open and came face to face with Flash Fred.

Flash Fred was dumbfounded, and he walked backwards down the few steps at some peril to himself. Larry surveyed him, his head on one side, like an inquisitive hen.

“Are you following me or am I following you?” he asked gently. “And why this early rising, Fred? Have you been out all night at your--business?”

For once Fred had no words. He had walked all the way from Jermyn Street to Paddington, and had been very careful to see that he had not been followed. At last he found his voice.

“So it was a trap, was it?” he said bitterly. “I might have guessed it. But you’ve got nothing on me, Mr. Holt.”

“I have several things on you,” said Larry pleasantly. He had unconsciously closed the door of the Home behind him. “I don’t like your face, I don’t like your jewels, I positively loathe your record. What is the idea, Fred? Have you called to deliver a contribution? Is your conscience pricking you?”

“Stow that stuff, Mr. Holt,” growled Fred, and to Larry’s surprise began walking away with him.

“Aren’t you going to the Home?” he asked.

“No, I’m not,” snapped Fred.

They walked on in silence, Fred between the two police officers, and his thoughts were very busy. They had reached the broad thoroughfare of Edgware Road before he had completed his mental exoneration.

“I don’t know what you’ve got me for. You can’t pinch me for ancient ’istory.”

In moments of perturbation Fred suffered certain lapses of style.

“_H_istory,” corrected Larry. “For the matter of that, I don’t know why you’re with us. But since you’ve forced yourself upon us, and since there’s nobody to see the disgraceful company I keep, I will endure you.”

Fred stopped short.

“Do you mean to tell me that I’m not pinched?” he asked incredulously.

“So far as I am concerned you are not,” said Larry, “unless Sergeant Reed has a private engagement with you.”

“Not me, sir,” smiled Sergeant Reed. “Who told you you were pinched, Fred?”

“Well, that beats it,” said Fred, aghast. “What was the game?”

“Don’t you know somebody at the Home?”

“I don’t know it from a cowshed,” said Fred. “I had to inquire my way of a milkman.”

“You should have asked a policeman,” murmured Larry. “There are plenty about.”

“There are too many about for me,” replied Flash Fred vindictively. “Here, Mr. Holt,” he said with sudden seriousness, “you’re a gentleman, and I know you wouldn’t put me wrong.”

Larry passed the compliment without comment.

“Well?” he said, and Fred dived into his inner pocket and produced a letter.

“What do you make of this, sir?” he asked.

Larry opened the letter, which was addressed to Fred Grogan, and began:

They are going to arrest you to-morrow. Larry Holt has the warrant for execution. Come to Todd’s Home in Lissom Lane at half-past six in the morning and ask to see “Lew,” and he will give you information that will help you to make a get-away. Don’t allow yourself to be shadowed, or tell anybody where you are going.

It was unsigned, and Larry folded the letter and was about to give it to Fred.

“Do you mind if I keep this?” he asked.

“No, sir, I don’t mind. But, Mr. Holt, will you tell me,” he demanded nervously, “is there any truth in that yarn of my being pinched?”

Larry shook his head.

“So far as I know you are not on the list, and certainly I have no warrant for you, Fred,” he said. “In fact, you have such a good record just now that if you ran straight you could pretty well live without fear of the police.”

“Sounds damned uninteresting to me,” said Flash Fred as he slouched off, and Larry let him go.