At length I stood in front of the house. It was a common-looking affair, and the vicinity was not one to be chosen by fastidious people. The street, sidewalks, and doorways all looked dirty and neglected. I concluded that since being discharged Sammy Simpson had come down in the world.
"Does Mr. Simpson live here?" I asked of a slip of a girl who sat on the stoop, nursing a ragged doll.
"Yes, sir; on the third floor in the front," she replied.
I climbed up the creaky stairs two flights, and rapped on the door.
"Come," said a voice, and I entered. The room was the barest kind of a kitchen. By the open window sat a thin, pale woman, holding a child.
"Does Mr. Samuel Simpson live here?" I asked.
"Yes, sir, but he's not in now," she returned. "Can I do anything for you?"
"I guess not."
"I hope—I hope there is nothing wrong," she went on falteringly.
"Wrong?" I queried. I did not quite understand her.