“‘One might at least see the place,’ says I.  ‘Can the key be got?’

“He bowed.  The key was at the baker’s, not a hundred yards away, he said....

“We got the key.  It was the key of the inner wooden door—­that grid of rusty iron didn’t need one—­it came clean off its single hinge when Carroll touched it.  Carroll opened, and we stood for a moment motioning to one another to step in.  Then Rangon went in first, and I heard him murmur ’Pardon, Mesdames.’...

“Now this is the odd part.  We passed into a sort of vestibule or hall, with a burst lead pipe in the middle of a dry tank in the centre of it.  There was a broad staircase rising in front of us to the first floor, and double doors just seen in the half-light at the head of the stairs.  Old tubs stood against the walls, but the palms and aloes in them were dead—­only a cabbage-stalk or two—­and the rusty hoops lay on the ground about them.  One tub had come to pieces entirely and was no more than a heap of staves on a pile of spilt earth.  And everywhere, everywhere was dust—­the floor was an inch deep in dust and old plaster that muffled our footsteps, cobwebs hung like old dusters on the walls, a regular goblin’s tatter of cobwebs draped the little bracket inside the door, and the wrought-iron of the hand-rail was closed up with webs in which not even a spider moved.  The whole thing was preposterous....

“‘It is possible that for even a less rental—­’

“Rangon murmured, dragging his forefinger across the hand-rail and leaving an inch-deep furrow....

“‘Come upstairs,’ said I suddenly....

“Up we went.  All was in the same state there.  A clutter of stuff came down as I pushed at the double doors of the salon, and I had to strike a stinking French sulphur match to see into the room at all.  Underfoot was like walking on thicknesses of flannel, and except where we put our feet the place was as printless as a snowfield—­dust, dust, unbroken grey dust.  My match burned down....

“‘Wait a minute—­I’ve a bougie,’ said Carroll, and struck the wax match....

“There were the old sconces, with never a candle-end in them.  There was the large oval mirror, but hardly reflecting Carroll’s match for the dust on it.  And the broken chairs were there, all gutless, and the rickety old round table....

“But suddenly I darted forward.  Something new and bright on the table twinkled with the light of Carroll’s match.  The match went out, and by the time Carroll had lighted another I had stopped.  I wanted Rangon to see what was on the table....

“‘You’ll see by my footprints how far from that table I’ve been,’ I said.  ‘Will you pick it up?’

“And Rangon, stepping forward, picked up from the middle of the table—­my cigarette case.”

* * * * *

Loder had finished.  Nobody spoke.  For quite a minute nobody spoke, and then Loder himself broke the silence, turning to me.