rapped at the panels with the handle of my stick; once, and then again. An urchin addressed me from the kerb.
“There ain’t no one living in that ’ouse, guv’nor.”
I thanked him for the information; it never occurred to me to shed a shadow of doubt on it. I felt sure that he was right. I crossed to a general shop on the other side of the way.
“Excuse me,” I said to the individual whom I took for the proprietor—“Kennard” was the name over the shop front—“Can you tell me who lives at No. 84?”
“No one.”
Mr. Kennard—I was convinced it was he—was a short, paunchy man, with a bald head and a club foot. He pursed his lips and screwed up his eyes in a fashion which struck me as rather comical.
“Who is the landlord?”
“No one knows.”
“No one?” I smiled. “I presume you mean that you don’t know. Someone must; the local authorities, for instance.”
“The local authorities don’t. I’m a vestryman myself, so you can take that from me. There’s been no rates and taxes paid on that house for twenty years or more; because no one knows to whom to go for them.”
He thrust his hands under his white apron, protruding his stomach in a manner which was a little aggressive.
“The last person who lived at Eighty-four was an old gentleman, named Robertson. He was a customer of mine, and owed me three pound seven and four when he was missing. It’s on my books to this hour.”
“Missing? Did he run away?”
“Not he; he wasn’t that sort. Besides, there was no reason. He was a pensioner; he told me so him-
