Read Some Danger Involved for Free Online

walked steadily down Waterloo Road, watching the rain cascade in a stream from the brim of my hat. I passed commercial and residential districts, by small parks and churches. It was not the worst way to spend a Saturday afternoon. London is a beautiful city, and never more so than when it rains. The streets gleam, the buildings all take on a dappled color, and the lights from butcher shops, tobacconists, and tea shops cast a cozy shade of ochre upon the pavement.
    Mac regarded me severely as I sloshed into the back passage, and Harm was displeased that I was dripping on the linoleum. He nipped at my heels (the dog, that is, not Mac, though he looked like he might have considered it), but it was a halfhearted and perfunctory attempt. Mac finally spoke.
    “Out for a walk, I see.”
    “Very observant. You should be a detective,” I replied. “Mr. Barker thought I should get to know the area better.”
    “I don’t believe he meant that you should swim the Thames,” he said acidly. “Give me your wet things. I’ve laid a fire. Actually, your timing is perfect. Your wardrobe has just arrived from Krause Brothers, and I believe your new boots are here as well.”
    “Excuse me. Did you say ‘wardrobe’?”
     
    The next morning, the rain had stopped, but a fog had rolled in thick and heavy. Luckily, it was a white fog and showed every intention of dissipating by noon, rather than the yellow kind, the London “particular,” full of coal smoke and the effluvium of every factory in the old town. That kind can float about the area for days, choking out the lives of the aged and consumptive.
    I didn’t let the weather bother me, however, for I had a new wardrobe. Not one, but half a dozen suits in various cuts and fabric, and all tailored to fit like a kid glove. Needless to say, I spent the night alternating between trying on the various articles and thanking my employer for his generosity. It was more and better clothing than I had ever had in my entire life. Gruffly, Barker muttered something about not wanting the agency to look less than professional, but I believe he was pleased. At least I passed muster.
    So that morning, I was fully dressed and beginning a new stack of books that had suddenly appeared on my desk overnight, when the Guv appeared at my door.
    “I see you’re already into the new books. Good work, lad.” He came in and wandered about, doing those things one does when one is uncomfortable, such as inspecting the wardrobe for dust or distress, and whistling quietly off-key.
    “Is there something you wish, sir?” I asked.
    “Well, here’s the thing. I am in the habit of attending the Metropolitan Tabernacle, Charles Haddon Spurgeon’s church, which is right across the street. I was wondering whether you might like to join me.”
    I closed my book. “Certainly, I’ll go.”
    He smiled. That is to say, his black mustache changed shape, like a bow whose string had been relaxed.
    “Thank you,” he said formally. “We leave within the quarter hour.”
    The church was, indeed, almost across the street. I had noted it in my walk, but it hadn’t registered in my mind that it was a church. To my Methodist eyes, the building more closely resembled a bank or museum.
    Inside, the building was immense, seating thousands and including a gallery. The latter had a long, gleaming brass rail encircling the room, and in one corner, it bulged out into a small balcony, not unlike a stage. As the first hymn began, I learned something else about my employer. His singing is no better than his penmanship.
    The famous preacher got up to speak. I was impressed by his passion and energy. Spurgeon almost bounded about the stage. He lifted us to the very gates of Heaven, then swooped down and dragged us along the coals of Hell until our coattails were singed and brimstone was in our nostrils.
    Coming out of the tabernacle and down the steps, I had to admit I’d had a good time. I’d even felt spiritually uplifted. Now,