A man, collarless and half
dressed, in carpet slippers, opened the door after a few moments'
waiting.
"Well, what is it?" he asked, gruffly.
"Is Professor Franklin here?" Tavernake inquired.
The man seemed as though he were about to slam the door, but
thought better of it.
"If you're a friend of the professor's, as he calls himself," he
said, "and you've any money to shell out, why, you're welcome,
but if you're only asking out of curiosity, let me tell you that
he used to lodge here but he's gone, and if I'd had my way he'd
have gone a week ago, him and his daughter, too."
"I don't understand," Tavernake protested. "I thought the young
lady was ill."
"She may be ill or she may not," the man replied, sulkily. "All
I know is that they couldn't pay their rent, couldn't pay their
food bill, couldn't pay for the drinks the old man was always
sending out for. So tonight I spoke up and they've gone."
"At least you know where to!" Tavernake exclaimed.
"I ain't no sort of an idea," the man declared. "Take my word
for it straight, guvnor, I know no more about where they went to
than the man in the moon, except that I'm well shut of them, and
there's a matter of eighteen and sixpence, if you care to pay
it."
"I'll give you a sovereign," Tavernake promised, "if you will
tell me where they are now."
"What's the good of making silly conditions like that!" the man
grumbled. "If I knew where they were, I'd earn the quid soon
enough, but I don't, and that's the long and the short of it!
And if you ain't going to pay the eighteen and six, well, I've
answered all the questions I feel inclined to.
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