Michael said good-bye and left him in bed. Then he called in to see the Solutionist, who was also in bed.
“I’ve got a commission for you,” said Michael.
The Solutionist’s watery eyes brightened faintly.
“You’re fond of animals, aren’t you?” Michael went on. “I see you feeding your Belgian hares. Well, I’m interested in a cat who appreciated my point of view. I want you to see that this cat has a quart of milk left for her outside Mrs. Smith’s door every morning. Mrs. Smith lives in the basement. You must explain to her that you are fond of animals; but you mustn’t mention me. Here’s a check for five pounds. Spend half this on the cat and the other half on your rabbits.”
The Solutionist held the check between his tremulous fingers.
“I couldn’t cash this nowadays,” he said helplessly. “And get a quart of milk for a cat? Why, the thing would burst.”
“All right. I’ll send you postal orders,” said Michael. “Now I’m going away for a bit. Never mind if a quart is too much. I want that amount left every day. You’ll do what I ask? And you’ll promise not to say a word about me?”
The Solutionist promised, and Michael left him looking more completely puzzled than he had ever seen him.
Michael could not bring himself to the point either of going down into the basement or of calling to Mrs. Cleghorne from the entrance to her cave; and as the bell-pull in his room had never been mended, he did not know how to reach her. The existence of Mrs. Smith had dreadfully complicated the mechanism of Number One. He ought to have made Barnes get out of bed and fetch her. By good luck Michael saw from his window the landlady standing at the top of the area steps. He ran out and asked her to come and speak to him.
“I see,” she said. “Mr. Barnes is to have your rooms, and you’re paying in advance up to February. Oh, and his coal and his gas as well? I see. Well, that you can settle month by month. Through me? Oh, yes.”