The man seemed as though he were about to slam the door, but thought better of it.
“If you're a friend of the professor's, as he calls himself,” he said, “and you've any money to shell out, why, you're welcome, but if you're only asking out of curiosity, let me tell you that he used to lodge here but he's gone, and if I'd had my way he'd have gone a week ago, him and his daughter, too.”
“I don't understand,” Tavernake protested. “I thought the young lady was ill.”
“She may be ill or she may not,” the man replied, sulkily. “All I know is that they couldn't pay their rent, couldn't pay their food bill, couldn't pay for the drinks the old man was always sending out for. So tonight I spoke up and they've gone.”
“At least you know where to!” Tavernake exclaimed.
“I ain't no sort of an idea,” the man declared. “Take my word for it straight, guvnor, I know no more about where they went to than the man in the moon, except that I'm well shut of them, and there's a matter of eighteen and sixpence, if you care to pay it.”
“I'll give you a sovereign,” Tavernake promised, “if you will tell me where they are now.”
“What's the good of making silly conditions like that!” the man grumbled. “If I knew where they were, I'd earn the quid soon enough, but I don't, and that's the long and the short of it! And if you ain't going to pay the eighteen and six, well, I've answered all the questions I feel inclined to.”
“I'll make it two pounds,” Tavernake promised. “I'm going to sail for America to-morrow morning early, and I must see them first.”
The man leaned forward.