As soon as Fitzgerald had gone, she went over to the window and watched him as he walked slowly down the street—a tall, handsome man of whom any woman would be proud.
"What an awful thing it are to think 'e'll be a corpse some day," she chirped cheerily to herself, "tho' of course bein' a great swell in 'is own place, 'e'll 'ave a nice airy vault, which 'ud be far more comfortable than a close, stuffy grave, even tho' it 'as a tombstone an' vi'lets over it. Ah, now! Who are you, impertinence?" she broke off, as a stout man in a light suit of clothes crossed the road and rang the bell, "a-pullin' at the bell as if it were a pump 'andle."
As the gentleman at the door, who was none other than Mr. Gorby, did not hear her, he of course did not reply, so she hurried down the stairs, crackling with anger at the rough usage that her bell had received.
Mr. Gorby had seen Brian go out, and deeming it a good opportunity to prosecute inquiries, had lost no time in making a start.
"You nearly tored the bell down," said the fiery cricket, as she presented her thin body and wrinkled face to the view of the detective.
"I'm very sorry," answered Gorby, meekly. "I'll knock next time."
"Oh, no you won't," said the landlady, tossing her head, "me not 'avin' a knocker, an' your 'and a-scratchin' the paint off the door, which it ain't been done over six months by my sister-in-law's cousin, which 'e is a painter, with a shop in Fitzroy, an' a wonderful heye to color."
"Does Mr. Fitzgerald live here?" asked Mr. Gorby quietly.
"He do," replied Mrs. Sampson, "but 'e's gone out, an' won't be back till the arternoon, which any messidge 'ull be delivered to 'im punctual on 'is arrival."
"I'm glad he's not in," said Mr. Gorby. "Would you allow me to have a few moments' conversation?"
"What is it?" asked the cricket, her curiosity being roused."
"I'll tell you when we get inside," answered Mr. Gorby.
The cricket looked at him with her sharp little eyes, and seeing nothing disreputable in him, led the way upstairs,
