The houses in Selburne Street were of the same pattern as most of the other streets, and just as shabby, but a little larger. The door at No. 14 was opened by the landlady, who did not know, or apparently care, whether Mrs. Randall was at home or out, but who bade the visitor go up to the first-floor front and inquire.
"She's got her key," said this lady, "and I don't always hear her come in."
Faunce went upstairs and tapped politely at the door of the front room.
"Come in, whoever you are," said a voice, with a listless melancholy in its tone.
An odour of tobacco greeted Faunce as he opened the door, and a woman sitting by the window threw the end of a cigarette into the street.
"Is it you, Jim?" she asked drearily, with her face towards the window; then, turning, and seeing a stranger, she gave a cry of surprise that had a touch of fear in it.
"What do you want?" she cried sharply, and Faunce saw that her hand shook a little as she caught hold of a chair.
"Nerves gone. The usual thing," he thought; "drink or drugs; the usual resource when bad luck sets in."
"I have ventured to call upon you on a matter of business, Mrs. Randall," he said, "without writing to ask leave. But as it's a business that may be profitable—very profitable—to yourself, I hope you will pardon the liberty."
"Who are you?" she asked fiercely. "I don't want any of your gammon. Who are you?"