What are you after ?" "Tell you later," said Jettison.

"Just an idea." He went leisurely out and across the market square and into the narrow, old-world street called Fladgate, along which he strolled as if doing no more than looking about him until he came to an ancient shop which had been converted into an office, and had a wire blind over the lower half of its front window, wherein was woven in conspicuous gilt letters Wrychester Second Friendly Society--George Stebbing, Secretary.

Nothing betokened romance or mystery in that essentially humble place, but it was in Jettison's mind that when he crossed its threshold he was on his way to discovering something that would possibly clear up the problem on which he was engaged.
The staff of the Second Friendly was inconsiderable in numbers--an outer office harboured a small boy and a tall young man; an inner one accommodated Mr.Stebbing, also a young man, sandy-haired and freckled, who, having inspected Detective-Sergeant Jettison's professional card, gave him the best chair in the room and stared at him with a mingling of awe and curiosity which plainly showed that he had never entertained a detective before.

And as if to show his visitor that he realized the seriousness of the occasion, he nodded meaningly at his door.
"All safe, here, sir!" he whispered.

"Well fitting doors in these old houses--knew how to make 'em in those days.