Number 1 was at the farther extremity of the row of houses. When Mr.
Ronald rang the bell, the spies were already posted. The woman loitered
on the road, within view of the door. Farnaby was out of sight, round
the corner, watching the house over the low wooden palings of the back
garden.

A lazy-looking man, in his shirt sleeves, opened the door. "Mrs. Turner
at home?" he repeated. "Well, she's at home; but she's too busy to see
anybody. What's your pleasure?" Mr. Ronald declined to accept excuses
or to answer questions. "I must see Mrs. Turner directly," he said, "on
important business." His tone and manner had their effect on the lazy
man. "What name?" he asked. Mr. Ronald declined to mention his name.
"Give my message," he said. "I won't detain Mrs. Turner more than a
minute." The man hesitated--and opened the door of the front parlour.
An old woman was fast asleep on a ragged little sofa. The man gave up
the front parlour, and tried the back parlour next. It was empty.
"Please to wait here," he said--and went away to deliver his message.

The parlour was a miserably furnished room. Through the open window,
the patch of back garden was barely visible under fluttering rows of
linen hanging out on lines to dry. A pack of dirty cards, and some
plain needlework, littered the bare little table. A cheap American
clock ticked with stern and steady activity on the mantelpiece. The
smell of onions was in the air. A torn newspaper, with stains of beer
on it, lay on the floor. There was some sinister influence in the place
which affected Mr. Ronald painfully. He felt himself trembling, and sat
down on one of the rickety chairs. The minutes followed one another
wearily. He heard a trampling of feet in the room above--then a door
opened and closed--then the rustle of a woman's dress on the stairs. In