"That is quite another question," said Greenwood. "I——"
"Do you mean to tell me, then," exclaimed the man, "that you ain't the Water Rates?"
"No—I am not," answered Greenwood, unable to suppress a smile. "I thought that a Mr. Pennywhiffe lived here."
"Then he don't—that's all," was the rejoinder. "Blowed if I don't believe it's a plant, after all. Come—ain't you a bum? no lies, now!"
Greenwood turned indignantly away from the room, and left the house, muttering to himself, "This is most extraordinary! Every one appears to be in difficulties in this street."
He was not, however, disheartened: it was highly necessary for him to see the person of whom he was in search; and he accordingly knocked at another door.
"Tell him I'll send round the money to-morrow," shouted a masculine voice inside. "I know it's the collector, because he's rapping at every house."
Greenwood did not wait for the door to be opened; he knew very well that Mr. Pennywhiffe could not live there.
The fourth house at which he knocked was the right one.
A decent-looking servant girl replied in the affirmative to his inquiry; and he was forthwith conducted to a well-furnished room on the first floor, where he found Mr. Pennywhiffe seated at a table covered with papers.