"I can scarce fancy her living here," said the man, pausing half-way up the stairs to look upwards at the dusty length which remained to be traversed. "Nay, she could never live here. I'm come on a fool's errand, but I may as well see it through."
His tall, broad-shouldered figure disappeared behind another angle, and halted at length on the fifth floor. On the door facing him a name was neatly painted:—Mr. Whiteside.
"'Tis a Lancashire name, right enough," he said, "but there weren't any Whitesides in our part when I was a lad. It'll be some stranger as our Molly took up with—well, let's go for'ard."
His tap was answered by a fresh-coloured woman, neatly clad in a stuff gown. The man surveyed her with a curious searching look, and she stared back at him.
"What was you pleased to want, sir?" she inquired at length, growing uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Mr. Whiteside—that's my husband—is out."
"Does Mrs. Rigby live here? No, I'm sure she does not—I beg your pardon—it is a mistake."
"No, sir, no mistake at all; it's quite right. Mrs. Rigby does live here—she's my mother."
The stranger again darted a swift, eager glance at her.
"Right," he said. "I'll come in; I want to see her."