Burton mounted the steps doubtfully and stood in
the hall, underneath a whitewasher's plank. The door of the familiar
little room stood open before him. He peered eagerly in. It was swept
bare and completely empty. All traces of its former mysterious occupant
were gone.
"Is this house let?" he inquired of a man who was deliberately stirring
a pail of shiny whitewash.
The plasterer nodded.
"Seems so," he admitted. "It's been empty long enough."
Burton looked around him a little vaguely.
"You all seem very busy," he remarked.
"Some bloke from the country's taken the 'ouse," the man grumbled, "and
wants to move in before the blooming paint's dry. Nobody can't do
impossibilities, mister," he continued, "leaving out the Unions, which
can't bear to see us over-exert ourselves. They've always got a
particular eye on me, knowing I'm a bit too rapid for most of them when
I start."
"Give yourself a rest for a moment," Burton begged. "Tell me, what's
become of the rugs and oddments of furniture from that little room
opposite?"
The man produced a pipe, contemplated it for a moment thoughtfully, and
squeezed down a portion of blackened tobacco with his thumb.
"Poor smoking," he complained.
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