Page:Richard Marsh--The joss, a reversion.djvu/173

Rh rapped at the panels with the handle of my stick; once, and then again. An urchin addressed me from the kerb.

“There ain’t no one living in that ’ouse, guv’nor.”

I thanked him for the information; it never occurred to me to shed a shadow of doubt on it. I felt sure that he was right. I crossed to a general shop on the other side of the way.

“Excuse me,” I said to the individual whom I took for the proprietor—“Kennard” was the name over the shop front—“Can you tell me who lives at No. 84?”

“No one.”

Mr. Kennard—I was convinced it was he—was a short, paunchy man, with a bald head and a club foot. He pursed his lips and screwed up his eyes in a fashion which struck me as rather comical.

“Who is the landlord?”

“No one knows.”

“No one?” I smiled. “I presume you mean that you don’t know. Someone must; the local authorities, for instance.”

“The local authorities don’t. I’m a vestryman myself, so you can take that from me. There’s been no rates and taxes paid on that house for twenty years or more; because no one knows to whom to go for them.”

He thrust his hands under his white apron, protruding his stomach in a manner which was a little aggressive.

“The last person who lived at Eighty-four was an old gentleman, named Robertson. He was a customer of mine, and owed me three pound seven and four when he was missing. It’s on my books to this hour.”

“Missing? Did he run away?”

“Not he; he wasn’t that sort. Besides, there was no reason. He was a pensioner; he told me so him-