“Someone asking for Mr Hyde,” she answered indifferently.
“You'll have to call back. He's not here.”
“That's what I told him,” corroborated his wife. “Is this where he lives?” asked Hannasyde.
“No, it isn't,” said Mr Brown, eyeing him with dawning dislike.
“Then perhaps you can tell me where he does live?”
“No, I'm sorry, I can't. Take a message, if you like.” Hannasyde produced a card, and gave it to him.
“That's my name,” he said. “It may help your memory a bit.”
Mr Brown read the legend on the card, and shot a swift, lowering look at the Superintendent. His wife craned her neck to see the card, and perceptibly changed colour. She stared at Hannasyde and thrust out her lip a little. “We don't want no busies here!” she announced. “What d'you want to know?”
Hannasyde, who was accustomed to being regarded by the Mrs Browns of this world with deep distrust, did not set a great deal of store by her obvious uneasiness, but replied in a business-like voice: “I've told you what I want to know. Where can I find Mr John Hyde?”
“How can we tell you what we don't know?” she cried. “He ain't here, that's all.”