They had now reached the house, one of the many little lodging-houses that stood where the Hotel Cecil is to-day, and Carminow let himself in with a large key and, turning up the gas, revealed the usual lodging-house hall that is and was and always shall be eternally the same as long as lodgings and landladies exist.  It had a yellowish paper blotted with large blurred flowers of a reddish hue, a steel engraving of the “Derby Day” hung by the hat-stand, and the woodwork was of bright yellow graining.

Carminow’s rooms were on the second floor; after the first landing had been passed the stairs suddenly altered in character, and from being carpeted and fairly wide took onto themselves linoleum and a steep straightness that said plainly:  “Up to here two guineas a week; above here only thirty shillings, with half-a-crown for extras.”  Higher still bare boards advertised the fact that only “bed-sitters” or even plain bedrooms were to be found.

Carminow’s rooms ran the depth of the house, the front one, his sitting-room, being separated from the bedroom by folding doors of the same bright yellow as the doors in the hall.  Into the sitting-room he ushered his guests, and they knocked helplessly up against sharp angles while Carminow pawed and patted round the room for matches, obstinately refusing the offers of their boxes because he said he was trying to train his landlady to keep his in the same place.  Killigrew, uninterested in the education of landladies, finally insisted on striking one of his own, and uttered a shriek of joy when the faint gleam revealed a glass jar in which a greenish-white fragment of a body floated forlornly.  Finally the gas was lit, the table cleared of papers and books, and bottles of beer placed upon it instead.  They had just settled down to villainously strong cigars and the beer when a sound very unexpected to two of them floated out upon the air—­the sound of a girl singing.  The voice was a rather deep mezzo; it was singing very softly an old ballad, to the accompaniment of a few notes very gently struck now and again on a piano.

Carminow said nothing, but lay back in his chair and puffed out clouds of smoke over his face.  Killigrew looked at him and whistled.

“I say ...” he said....  “Own up, Carminow!  Who is it?”

“If you mean who is the lady singing,” said Carminow with sudden stiffness, “she is Miss Grey, who has the room above this.  She is a young lady about whom I think even you would not make your obscene jokes if you knew her.”

“Sits the wind in that quarter?...” thought Killigrew, highly amused.  “I’ll roast him....”  Aloud he said:  “And may I not know her, then, Carminow?  If Miss Grey is a friend of yours, perhaps—­”

“I am vewy particular about whom I intwoduce to Miss Grey,” said Carminow unflatteringly; “that is to say, I should first have to find out whether she wished it.  She is quite alone, poor girl.”

“Dear me!  How is that?  Is she some romantic governess out of a place or a lady who through no fault of her own has come down in the world?”