“I want to know whether Bill Smith lives here,” said the rough voice, a little louder than before.
“No,” answered John; “he doesn’t.”
“He don’t? Well, he lives around here somewheres, and I thought it was here.”
In the dim light John could just make out, beneath a slouch hat, that the man had a large nose and a heavy moustache. He also noted that his breath smelled strongly of liquor.
“I’m very sorry. I don’t know anyone of that name,” repeated John—“as common as the name is,” he added, as an afterthought.
He could see that the man was grinning as he turned away.
“All right!” he called out over his shoulder. “Sorry I troubled you fellows!”
John watched the retreating figure pass out of the drive. When he reached the road, the man paused for a moment, looked back towards the house, then up and down the road, and finally walked away.
John stood at the open door for several minutes, waiting to see whether the man would return. When he turned back into the room his brows were drawn together and he was thinking hard.
“Now I wonder what he really wanted?” he asked.