K

By Mary Roberts Rinehart




CHAPTER I


The Street stretched away north and south in two lines of ancient houses
that seemed to meet in the distance. The man found it infinitely inviting.
It had the well-worn look of an old coat, shabby but comfortable. The
thought of coming there to live pleased him. Surely here would be
peace--long evenings in which to read, quiet nights in which to sleep and
forget. It was an impression of home, really, that it gave. The man did
not know that, or care particularly. He had been wandering about a
long time--not in years, for he was less than thirty. But it seemed a very
long time.

At the little house no one had seemed to think about references. He could
have given one or two, of a sort. He had gone to considerable trouble to
get them; and now, not to have them asked for--

There was a house across and a little way down the Street, with a card in
the window that said: "Meals, twenty-five cents." Evidently the midday meal
was over; men who looked like clerks and small shopkeepers were hurrying
away. The Nottingham curtains were pinned back, and just inside the window
a throaty barytone was singing: