Mrs. Avery came to the door, a gentle-faced little woman with white hair. She looked inquiringly at the visitor.
"Mrs. Avery, I believe?" said the man in drab.
"That is my name."
"I would like the favor of a few words with you, madam."
"Come in then," and she led the way to a modest sitting-room.
"My husband," she said, introducing him to a kindly old man, as white-haired as herself.
"My name is Fletcher," said the visitor, "and I have come to you for information. But first, am I right in my belief that you were once in charge of the Scranton poorhouse?"
"Yes, sir. My husband and I had charge of it for fifteen years. We should have been there now, but for Squire Dixon, the new Overseer of the Poor, who wanted the place for some friends of his, Mr. and Mrs. Fogson."
"I have had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Fogson," said Fletcher with a smile. "I am sure, now that I have seen you both, that the change was for the worse."
"I fear that the poor people are very shabbily treated," said Mrs. Avery gravely. "It makes me feel very badly, but what can I do? Squire Dixon sustains them, and he has everything to say. But you say you want some information. I shall be glad to tell you what I can."