"I beg your pardon?"

"Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in
Manchester," repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the Sunday
paper, in which the calamity in question had just been
announced to him.

"Ah, yes," said Leonard, who was not going to let on
that he had not bought a Sunday paper.

"If this kind of thing goes on the population of England
will be stationary in 1960."

"You don't say so."

"I call it a very serious thing, eh?"

"Good-evening, Mr. Cunningham."

"Good-evening, Mr. Bast."

Then Leonard entered Block B of the flats, and turned,
not upstairs, but down, into what is known to house agents
as a semi-basement, and to other men as a cellar. He opened
the door, and cried "Hullo!" with the pseudo-geniality of
the Cockney. There was no reply. "Hullo!" he repeated.
The sitting-room was empty, though the electric light had
been left burning. A look of relief came over his face, and
he flung himself into the armchair.