"He must have had his reasons," I observed. "Perhaps his coming into possession of a large fortune made him careless of these trifles."
"They are not exactly trifles," said Bob, who was better able than I to speak on the subject. "A broker would give at least fifty pounds for what is on this floor. The wonder is that the place has not been robbed."
We had not yet reached the second floor, and we now ascended to the room in which my wife and I had met with our appalling experience. Before entering it we examined the back rooms, and in one, a bedroom, we found two beds, which we determined to occupy for the night. Bob, having lived a bachelor life for many years, now showed his handiness. He examined the stove, to see that the register was up, and then he opened his Gladstone bag, the contents of which surprised me. He produced first a bundle of wood, then a remarkable case which contained within its exceedingly limited space a kettle with a folding handle, a gridiron, two tin pannikins, knives, forks, and spoons, and a spirit lamp, fitting in each other.
"Bravo, Bob," I said; "living alone has taught you something."
He smiled, and proceeded to further surprise me, fishing out a loaf of bread, tea, sugar, a tin of condensed milk, sausages, salt, pepper, a revolver, a pack of cards, and a Bible--a motley collection of articles.
"A bachelor's multum in parvo," he said, adding, as he touched the revolver, "wouldn't be bad for the bush. We are short of two things, coal and water. But look here--we are in luck. A scuttle nearly full. There will be no water in the house fit to drink. We shall have to go and market, but there will not be so much to get in as I expected."
With the manner of a man accustomed to attend to his wants he knelt down and burned some paper and wood in the grate, and the draught being all right, laid the fire, but did not set light to it. Rising, he expressed a wish to see the front room.
It was, as before, quite bare and empty, and Bob said it looked as if it had not been furnished. The bell ropes were there, one broken, the other in a workable condition. I laid my hand on the unbroken cord, and cast an inquiring glance at Bob.
"Yes," he said, "pull it."
He threw the door wide open, and stood with his back to it, to prevent its closing. He held his revolver in his hand, his finger on the trigger. I gave the rope a smart tug, and, as on the previous eventful occasion, it was followed by the jangle of a host of discordant bells. The sounds died away in a low wail, and we waited in silent apprehension. But this time there was no response to the call; it was answered only by a dead silence. The feeling of relief I experienced was shared by Bob, though, curiously enough, there was an expression of disappointment in his face.