f dreary-looking streets and squares, all bearing a
dismal aspect of having seen better days.

Edith Terrace was, if anything, slightly more depressing than the
rest. It consisted of a double row of gaunt, untidy houses, from which
most of the original stucco had long since peeled away. Quiet enough
it certainly was, for along its whole length we passed only one man,
who was standing under a street lamp, lighting a cigarette. He looked
up as we went by, and for just one instant I had a clear view of his
face. Except for a scar on the cheek he was curiously like one of the
warders at Princetown, and for that reason I suppose this otherwise
trifling incident fixed itself in my mind. It is funny on what queer
chances one's fate sometimes hangs.

We pulled up at Number 3 and, mounting some not very recently cleaned
steps, I gave a brisk tug at a dilapidated bell-handle. After a minute
I heard the sound of shuffling footsteps; then the door opened and a
funny-looking little old woman stood blinking and peering at me from
the threshold.

"How do you do?" I said cheerfully. "Are you Mrs. Oldbury?"

She gave a kind of spasmodic jerk, that may have been intended for a
curtsey.

"Yes, sir," she said. "I'm Mrs. Oldbury; and you'd be the gentleman
I'm expectin'--Dr. McMurtrie's gentleman?"

This seemed an accurate if not altogether flattering description of
me, so I nodded my head.

"That's right," I said. "I'm Mr. Nicholson." Then, as the heavily
laden taxi-man staggered up the steps, I added: "And these are my
belongings."

With another bob she turned round, and leading the way into the house
opened a door on the right-hand side of the passage.

"This will be your sitting-room, sir," she said, turning up the gas.
"It's a nice hairy room, and I give it a proper cleaning out this
morning."

I looked round, and saw that I was in a typical "ground-floor front,"
with the usual cheap lace curtains, hideous wall paper, and slightly
stuffy smell. At the back of the room, away from the window, were two
folding doors.

My landlady shuffled across and pushed one of them open. "And this
is the bedroom, sir. It's what you might call 'andy--and quiet too.
You'll find that a nice comfortable bed, sir. It's the one my late
'usband died in."

"It sounds restful," I said. Then walking to the doorway I paid off
the taxi-man, who had deposited his numerous burdens and was waiting
patiently for his fare.

As soon as he had gone, Mr