It was very cold. The sky was dark and heavy with unshed snow.
A man in a dark overcoat, with his muffler pulled up round his face, and his hat pulled down over his eyes, came along Culver Street and went up the steps of number 74. He put his finger on the bell and heard it shrilling in the basement below.
Mrs. Casey, her hands busy in the sink, said bitterly, “Drat that bell. Never any peace, there isn’t.”
Wheezing a little, she toiled up the basement stairs and opened the door.
The man standing silhouetted against the lowering sky outside asked in a whisper, “Mrs. Lyon?”
“Second floor,” said Mrs. Casey. “You can go on up. Does she expect you?” The man slowly shook his head. “Oh, well, go on up and knock.”
She watched him as he went up the shabbily carpeted stairs. Afterward she said he “gave her a funny feeling.” But actually all she thought was that he must have a pretty bad cold only to be able to whisper like that—and no wonder with the weather what it was.
When the man got round the bend of the staircase he began to whistle softly. The tune he whistled was “Three Blind Mice.”
Molly Davis stepped back into the road and looked up at the newly painted board by the gate.
She nodded approval. It looked, it really did look, quite professional. Or, perhaps, one might say almost professional. The T of Guest House staggered uphill a little, and the end of Manor was slightly crowded, but on the whole Giles had made a wonderful job of it. Giles was really very clever. There were so many things that he could do. She was always making fresh discoveries about this husband of hers. He said so little about himself that it was only by degrees that she was finding out what a lot of varied talents he had. An ex-naval man was always a “handy man,” so people said.
