of No. 9. He found the door standing open, but his eyes were unable to pierce a single foot into the dense blackness within. With a shudder, he groped for the knocker, and knocked loudly twice.
He repeated the summons several times before any notice was taken. At length, however, a window was thrown open above, and a shrill woman’s voice cried out—
“What are you wantin’ of? Who is it?
“Is there a Mr. Golding living here?” asked the visitor, stepping back and endeavouring to catch sight of the speaker.
“There’s one o’ that name dyin’ here. I’m thinkin’,” returned a gruff voice, in a tone meant to be humorous. “What do you want with him, mister? Does he owe yer money? ’Cos if he do, I’m thinkin’ ye’ll have to look out sharp after it.”
“Would you be so good as to show me to his room?” cried the visitor. “I particularly wish to see him.”
“Third floor back,” screamed the female voice. “I s'pose yer don’t want showin’ the way up-stairs, do yer?”
The stranger entered the coal-black portal of the house, and, groping with his hands, made his way up-stairs till a door suddenly opened and a woman with a candle in her hand appeared. She seemed half undressed, her face, which was naturally hideous, was grimy with untold layers of dirt, and her
