The Booths, by the way, were only counted as temporary lodgers, as they had a fine house of their own in course of erection at Neutral Bay, and were merely waiting its completion to move.
When P.-C. Hobbs came on duty in plain clothes and relieved his brother officer on watch in front of Mrs. Delfosse’s boarding-house, he was just in time to overhear that lady recounting her griefs to a little gentleman whose outward egress she barred with her ample form in the front doorway.
“What shall I do, doctor? I am ruined, entirely ruined! To think of people coming and getting murdered in a house of mine, and me been here these fifteen years! It’s not as though they were permanents! And I who have always been so respected! Oh, little did my poor dear captain think I should ever come to this? The first floors have gone, and two better boarders no one could wish for; not paltry city clerks, but merchants, real merchants, and paid like the bank. And they left at once, never thinking of me. No one thinks of me. No one has a thought for a poor widow, left without resources. I call it shameful. There ought to be a law to prevent it. And who do you think will come and take rooms in a house where a man has been murdered? If it was only a suicide now, it would not be so bad. I have known persons in the best of families make away with themselves. But I’m ruined, ruined! I shall come to starve on the streets, I’m sure!”
The little doctor, who was fidgeting to get away, here interposed—
“Why not leave this house and take another?”
“I have thought of that; but look at the expense, and how would I get other rooms to fit the carpets, and stairs to suit the matting, let alone all the blinds and rollers? Now, just look at that oilcloth—”
As Mrs. Delfosse turned to point out the article mentioned, the doctor saw an opening, darted through, and was yards up the street before the lady could draw breath.
“Just like all the others. All for self; all for his own business. Not a thought for me. No one thinks of me.”
During this time, in the sitting-room of the same house, another interview was taking place. A middle-aged gentleman, with a strong resemblance to Shakespeare, in a nineteenth century coat and trousers, and long waving hair, was seated. This was Professor Norris. Why “Professor,” was never very clear, except it might be the long hair.
A young woman, tall, well-shaped, if you exclude her pinched-in waist, a complexion of strawberries and cream, blue eyes to match her fair hair, a nose of no particular merit, lips blood red, and a set of white teeth—if they were all real—as perfect and regular as the artificial article. There was the general plumpness and freshness about this young lady that the French term Beauty de Diable, and a sparkle in her eyes at times that would set on fire, not chips, as other sparks do, but masculine hearts.