Never as long as the rent-man could remember (and that was a very long time) had the household at No. 24 been asleep at 9.30 on a Saturday morning.
He went his rounds and returned to No. 24 on his way home about ten past one. The milk-can was still there on the step. Its solitude was now shared by a loaf of bread which the baker had left. Receiving no answer to his knocks, the rent-man went to No. 26. There the garrulous Mrs. Jopson recounted the visit of the two callers on the previous evening.
“They knocked an’ knocked an’ knocked, but couldn’t git no anser ... an’ my ’usband swears ’e ’adn’t seen ’im go aout.”
Eventually it was decided that the rent-man should climb over the fence in Jopson’s back garden and effect an entrance into No. 24 by the back way. Jopson, morbidly curious, was to go with him.
You picture this strange couple standing in the tiny back scullery of No. 24, Jopson with his huge face-monstrosity all mottled and pink and shining with sweat, and the rent-man sleek and dapper, fountain-pen behind his ear, receipt-book stuffed in his side pocket.
“Gow on strite through,” said Jopson thickly, “it leads inter the kitchin.”
Slowly and almost apprehensively the rent-man turned the handle....
CHAPTER VIII
POST-MORTEM
§ 1
IT seemed to Catherine the most curious thing in the world that she should be sitting with George Trant inside a taxi. There was no light inside, and only the distant glimmer of London came in through the window. All was dim and dark and shadowy. Yet somewhere amongst these shadows sat George Trant. Perhaps he was thinking that somewhere amongst those shadows sat she, Catherine Weston.