She took him to the top front bed-room first. It was clean and tidy, just like herself, and gave a cheery view of the shop fronts on the opposite side of the street.
Jones, looking out of the window, saw something that held him for a moment fascinated and forgetful of his surroundings and his companion. Hoover, no less, walking hurriedly and accompanied by a man who looked like a gardener. They were passing towards the sea, looking about them as they went. Hoover had the appearance of a person who has lost a purse or some article of value, so Jones thought as he watched them vanish. He turned to the landlady.
“I like this room,” said he, “it is cheerful and quiet, just the sort of place I want. Now let’s see the parlour.”
The parlour boasted of a horsehair sofa, chairs to match, pictures to match, and a glass fronted bookcase containing volumes of the Sunday Companion, Sword and Trowel, Home Influence, and Ouida’s “Moths” in the old, yellow-back, two shilling edition.
“Very nice indeed,” said Jones. “What do you charge?”
“Well, sir,” said the landlady—her name was Henshaw—“it’s a pound a week for the two rooms without board, two pounds with.”
“Any extras?” asked the artful Jones.
“No, sir.”
“Well, that will do me nicely. I came along here right from the station, and my portmanteau hasn’t arrived, though it was labelled for here, and the porter told me he had put it on the train. I’ll have to go up to the station this evening again to see if it has arrived. Meanwhile, seeing I haven’t my luggage with me, I’ll pay you in advance.”
She assured him that this was unnecessary, but he insisted.