been represented in this modest space; now, flowers and vegetables, such of them as survived in the struggle for existence, mingled together, and all alike were threatened by a wild, rank growth of grasses and weeds, which had obliterated the beds, hidden the paths, and made of the whole garden plot a green jungle.  But Goldthorpe gave only a glance at this still life; his interest was engrossed by a human figure, seated on a campstool near the back wall of the house, and holding a concertina, whence, at this moment, in slow, melancholy strain, ‘Home, Sweet Home’ began to wheeze forth.  The player was a middle-aged man, dressed like a decent clerk or shopkeeper, his head shaded with an old straw hat rather too large for him, and on his feet—­one of which swung as he sat with legs crossed—­a pair of still more ancient slippers, also too large.  With head aside, and eyes looking upward, he seemed to listen in a mild ecstasy to the notes of his instrument.  He had a round face of much simplicity and good-nature, semicircular eyebrows, pursed little mouth with abortive moustache, and short thin beard fringing the chinless lower jaw.  Having observed this unimposing person for a minute or two, himself unseen, Goldthorpe surveyed the rear of the building, anxious to discover any sign of its still serving as human habitation; but nothing spoke of tenancy.  The windows on this side were not boarded, and only a few panes were broken; but the chief point of contrast with the desolate front was made by a Virginia creeper, which grew luxuriantly up to the eaves, hiding every sign of decay save those dim, dusty apertures which seemed to deny all possibility of life within.  And yet, on looking steadily, did he not discern something at one of the windows on the top story—­something like a curtain or a blind?  And had not that same window the appearance of having been more recently cleaned than the others?  He could not be sure; perhaps he only fancied these things.  With neck aching from the strained position in which he had made his survey over the wall, the young man turned away.  In the same moment ‘Home, Sweet Home’ came to an end, and, but for the cry of a milkman, the early-morning silence was undisturbed.

Goldthorpe pursued his walk, thinking of what he had seen, and wondering what it all meant.  On his way back he made a point of again passing the deserted houses, and again he peered over the wall of the passage.  The man was still there, but no longer seated with the concertina; wearing a round felt hat instead of the straw, he stood almost knee-deep in vegetation, and appeared to be examining the various growths about him.  Presently he moved forward, and, with head still bent, approached the lower end of the garden, where, in a wall higher than that over which Goldthorpe made his espial, there was a wooden door.  This the man opened with a key, and, having passed out, could be heard to turn a lock behind him.  A minute more, and this short, respectable figure came into sight at the end of the passage.  Goldthorpe could not resist the opportunity thus offered.  Affecting to turn a look of interest towards the nearest roof, he waited until the stranger was about to pass him, then, with civil greeting, ventured upon a question.