Mr. Spicer was red with gratification.

‘I feel that something might be done with the garden, sir,’ he said.  ’The fact is, sir, I’ve only lately come into this property, and I’m sorry to say it’ll only be mine for a little more than a year—­a year from next midsummer day, sir.  There’s the explanation of what you see.  It’s leasehold property, and the lease is just coming to its end.  Five years ago, sir, an uncle of mine inherited the property from his brother.  The houses were then in a very bad state, and only one of them let, and there had been lawsuits going on for a long time between the leaseholder and the ground-landlord—­I can’t quite understand these matters, they’re not at all in my line, sir; but at all events there were quarrels and lawsuits, and I’m told one of the tenants was somehow mixed up in it.  The fact is, my uncle wasn’t a very well-to-do man, and perhaps he didn’t feel able to repair the houses, especially as the lease was drawing to its end.  Would you like to go in and have a look round?’

They entered by the back door, which admitted them to a little wash-house.  The window was over-spun with cobwebs, thick, hoary; each corner of the ceiling was cobweb-packed; long, dusty filaments depended along the walls.  Notwithstanding, Goldthorpe noticed that the house had a water-supply; the sink was wet, the tap above it looked new.  This confirmed a suspicion in his mind, but he made no remark.  They passed into the kitchen.  Here again the work of the spider showed thick on every hand.  The window, however, though uncleaned for years, had recently been opened; one knew that by the torn and ragged condition of the webs where the sashes joined.  And lo! on the window-sill stood a plate, a cup and saucer, a knife, a fork, a spoon—­all of them manifestly new-washed.  Goldthorpe affected not to see these objects; he averted his face to hide an involuntary smile.

‘I must light a candle,’ said Mr. Spicer.  ‘The staircase is quite dark.’

A candle stood ready, with a box of matches, on the rusty cooking-stove.  No fire had burned in the grate for many a long day; of that the visitor assured himself.  Save the objects on the window-sill, no evidence of human occupation was discoverable.  Having struck a light, Mr. Spicer advanced.  In the front passage, on the stairs, on the landing, every angle and every projection had its drapery of cobwebs.  The stuffy, musty air smelt of cobwebs; so, at all events, did Goldthorpe explain to himself a peculiar odour which he seemed never to have smelt.  It was the same in the two rooms on the first floor.  Through the boarded windows of that in front penetrated a few thin rays from the golden sky; they gleamed upon dust and web, on faded, torn wall-paper and a fireplace in ruins.

‘I shouldn’t recommend you to take either of these rooms,’ said Mr. Spicer, looking nervously at his companion.  ’They really can’t be called attractive.’