"What did you see?" asked Kate.
"See? I don't know ... there was something strange——"
"It was 'er, sure enough!"
"What do you mean, Kate?" Poppy felt her spine curling.
"I'm new here," whispered Kate mysteriously; "but I got five minutes' talk with the last girl, though the missis tried hard to keep us from meeting. Miss—no one ever sleeps in that room long. A lydy cut her throat there!"
"What!"
"Yes—sure as I'm sitting here. I've been afraid to creep up the stairs at night for fear of her. How you could a slep there, Heavin knows!" She lowered her voice to a whisper: "She used to take them drugs. She was a hactress, and she and her 'usbin had that room. She was very clever, they said, but she hadn't had no work for a long time, and she used to eat away at them drugs night and day, and 'er 'usbin never knew. And at last, one day he found 'er out, and there was an awful shindy and he said as 'e'd leave her if she didn't knock it off. And she tried and tried. For a whole three days she did without ... walked the room all day and would go out and no sooner out than in again ... she told the girl it was 'ell. Every time anyone came to the door she would stand up and just say, ''ell! 'ell! ell!' very quiet to herself all the time they was speaking. Then on the third night she went out and got it. And the 'usbin found out as soon as he came in. She was so gentle and sweet-like, and began to 'elp 'im off with his coat. He gave her a look ... like hanythink, then 'e put his hat and coat on again and walked out. And that very night she done for 'erself with one of the razors 'e left behind. She done it in the very bed you bin sleeping in. I says to cook I says it's a shime of the missis to do it!—but there! she's one of them would sell 'er mother's shroud for sixpence. I shan't stay here no more after this, don't you believe it, miss—not for a thousand pound; and nor won't you, I reckon."
Poppy's reckoning came to much the same sum. When she stole down in the morning light, it was to dress herself and pack her belongings swiftly for departure. Kate stayed by the door until all was done, casting fearsome glances about her, ready to fly at a sound. They left the flower-decked room then, to the poor, disquieted spirit that haunted it, and sought the mistress of the house. But she discreetly excused herself from an interview, and only sent the cook to demand a week's extra money in lieu of the notice that should have been given. Poppy expostulated, but it was of no use: she was told that it was the rule under which rooms were let and that her luggage could be detained. When she had paid, she realised that this extra expense would force her to seek still cheaper lodgings. That evening found her installed in a dingy room in Hunter Street—another top-floor-but-one.
How she wished at this time, that she had betaken herself from the first to Paris, where, she had been told all top-floors are white-and-gold rooms, with faded true-lovers' knots festooning the ceiling, and wide oak fireplaces in which burnt little bright briquette fires. Once, wishing to have a picture in the Louvre copied for Luce, she had visited a clever but penniless girl-artist in such a room, in quite a poor part of the Quartier; and the girl had carelessly told her that there were plenty of the same kind to be had.
In her new quarters Poppy had barely room to turn round: but she was more content. No tragic ghosts kept vigil there, it was certain. A healthy scent of Irish stew pervaded the atmosphere, and the walls were decorated with smiling faces and charming figures. The landlady, a stout, breezy woman on the right side of forty-five, had once been a chorus girl at the Gaiety, and her circle of acquaintances had evidently been large. Little now remained to her of beauty, but she had an attractive bonhomie and a wide charity for the world of women.