Ashton-Kirk, Investigator

I

Young Pendleton’s car crept carefully around the corner and wound in and out among the pushcart men and dirty children.

About midway in the block was a square-built house with tall, small-paned windows and checkered with black-headed brick. It stood slightly back from the street with ancient dignity; upon the shining doorplate, deeply bitten in angular text, was the name “Ashton-Kirk.”

Here the car stopped; Pendleton got out, ascended the white marble steps and tugged at the polished, old-fashioned bell-handle.