“I'd love to see it, and I'll come gladly; but I'm afraid I won't be much help, Uncle William,” she worried.
“I'll take the risk of that. You see, Harlow says that about half the time she isn't sure she wants to sell it, after all.”
“Why, how funny! Well, I'll come. At eleven, you say, at Park Street?”
“Yes; and thank you, my dear. I tried to get Kate to go, too; but she wouldn't. By the way, I'm going to bring you home to luncheon. Kate leaves this afternoon, you know, and it's been so snowy she hasn't thought best to try to get over to the house. Maybe Aunt Hannah would come, too, for luncheon. Would she?”
“I'm afraid not,” returned Billy, with a rueful laugh. “She's got three shawls on this morning, and you know that always means that she's felt a draft somewhere—poor dear. I'll tell her, though, and I'll see you at eleven,” finished Billy, as she hung up the receiver.
Promptly at the appointed time Billy met Uncle William at Park Street, and together they set out for the West End street named on the paper in his pocket. But when the shabby house on the narrow little street was reached, the man looked about him with a troubled frown.
“I declare, Billy, I'm not sure but we'd better turn back,” he fretted. “I didn't mean to take you to such a place as this.”
Billy shivered a little; but after one glance at the man's disappointed face she lifted a determined chin.
“Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don't mind—for myself; but only think of the people whose homes are here,” she finished, just above her breath.
Mrs. Greggory was found to be living in two back rooms at the top of four flights of stairs, up which William Henshaw toiled with increasing weariness and dismay, punctuating each flight with a despairing: “Billy, really, I think we should turn back!”