Sherlock Holmes was never at fault,
however, and he muttered the names as the cab rattled through
squares and in and out by tortuous by-streets.
"Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we come out
on the Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side,
apparently. Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You
can catch glimpses of the river."
We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with
the lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab
dashed on, and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon
the other side.
"Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall
Lane. Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our
quest does not appear to take us to very fashionable regions."
We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding
neighborhood. Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved
by the coarse glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the
corner. Then came rows of two-storied villas each with a
fronting of miniature garden, and then again interminable lines
of new staring brick buildings,--the monster tentacles which the
giant city was throwing out into the country.
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