Topographers and historians are unable to say for certain whether or not the Inn has any valid connection with that Sir John Bramston who was Chief Justice to Charles I. It was, say some, in its earlier days, an Inn of Chancery—a poor relation of the opulent and flourishing Inns of Court, and indeed it still wears a faint family resemblance to its more famous cousins. But it is a resemblance that has grown more and more distant with time. Hall and chapel have long since been swept away and now the only legal flavour that yet remains to its dark chambers and ruinous staircases is supplied by two firms of solicitors, neither of them of very high repute. For the rest, its tenants are obscurely charitable societies, minor trade associations and firms of uncertain reputation—such as, for example, the Anglo-Dutch Rubber and General Trading Syndicate.

The name, in dirty black paint upon a dirty yellow background, was still legible in the doorway of one of the four houses that made up the row. The offices were on the fourth floor, and from the dusty windows hung a board which announced: “These desirable offices to let. Apply caretaker.” The caretaker, a shabby, ill-shaven man with red and suspicious eyes, emerged from the basement at Mallett’s knock.

“Police?” he said querulously, in reply to the inspector’s summons. “We’ve ’ad ’em ’ere already. They didn’t find nothing.”

“All the same, I’ll have a look round, if you don’t mind,” answered Mallett.

They ascended the stairs together and went into the deserted office. It consisted of two rooms only, unfurnished save for a couple of desks and a safe, the door of which swung open to reveal the emptiness within. Mallett walked quickly round them, his footsteps sounding heavily on the uncarpeted floor, while the caretaker watched him from the door In the furthest angle of the inner room was a window, giving on to the back of the block. Mallett threw it open.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

“Fire escape. They put it in—the Anglo-Dutch people did—soon after they took it.”

The inspector leant out of the window and gazed thoughtfully down the narrow iron staircase. From the angle at which the window was set, it could not be overlooked in any way by neighbouring tenants. The wall of No. 3, next door, shrugged a protective shoulder which effectually screened it from observation. The wall of the building opposite was blank. He considered. That should be Black Dog Court below, and from it, he knew, a passage ran into Fleet Street. It was a well-devised back exit—or entry. He nodded in satisfaction and withdrew.

“’Ave you seen all you want to see?” asked the man behind him.

“I’ve seen all there is to see here,” returned Mallett, “but there’s still one thing not here I want to see. Will you show it to me?”

“What’s that?”

“The umbrella.”