"No, sir: I had a delicacy," was the reply. "I feel very
strongly about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style
of the day of judgment. You start a question, and it's like
starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away
the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird
(the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his
own back garden and the family have to change their name. No sir,
I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the
less I ask."

"A very good rule, too," said the lawyer.

"But I have studied the place for myself," continued Mr.
Enfield. "It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and
nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the
gentleman of my adventure. There are three windows looking on the
court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut
but they're clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally
smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it's not so sure;
for the buildings are so packed together about the court, that
it's hard to say where one ends and another begins."

The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then
"Enfield," said Mr. Utterson, "that's a good rule of yours."

"Yes, I think it is," returned Enfield.

"But for all that," continued the lawyer, "there's one point I
want to ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over