othing,savethatweseemedtobegoingaverylongway.SherlockHolmeswasneveratfault,however,andhemutteredthenamesasthecabrattledthroughsquaresandinandoutbytortuousby-streets.
“RochesterRow,”saidhe.“NowVincentSquare.NowwecomeoutontheVauxhallBridgeRoad.WearemakingfortheSurreyside,apparently.Yes,Ithoughtso.Nowweareonthebridge.Youcancatchglimpsesoftheriver.”
WedidindeedgetafleetingviewofastretchoftheThameswiththelampsshininguponthebroad,silentwaterbutourcabdashedon,andwassooninvolvedinalabyrinthofstreetsupontheotherside.
“WordsworthRoad,”saidmycompanion.“PrioryRoad.LarkHallLane.StockwellPlace.RobertStreet.ColdHarborLane.Ourquestdoesnotappeartotakeustoveryfashionableregions.”
Wehad,indeed,reachedaquestionableandforbiddingneighbourhood.Longlinesofdullbrickhouseswereonlyrelievedbythecoarseglareandtawdrybrilliancyofpublichousesatthecorner.Thencamerowsoftwo-storiedvillaseachwithafrontingofminiaturegarden,andthenagaininterminablelinesofnewstaringbrickbuildings,—themonstertentacleswhichthegiantcitywasthrowingoutintothecountry.Atlastthecabdrewupatthethirdhouseinanewterrace.Noneoftheotherhouseswereinhabited,andthatatwhichwestoppedwasasdarkasitsneighbours,saveforasingleglimmerinthekitchenwindow.Onourknocking,however,thedoorwasinstantlythrownopenbyaHindooservantcladinayellowturban,whiteloose-fittingclothes,andayellowsash.TherewassomethingstrangelyincongruousinthisOrientalfigureframedinthecommonplacedoorwayofathird-ratesuburbandwelling-house.
“TheSahibawaitsyou,”saidhe,andevenashespoketherecameahighpipingvoicefromsomeinnerroom.“Showthemintome,khitmutgar,”itcried.“Showthemstraightintome.”