On and on her taxi took her, through the dark streets, for it was a late Saturday afternoon, and to Jean, looking out of the windows, the long dreary streets seemed to grow shabbier and shabbier.
At last it turned into a thoroughfare which seemed interminable, and of which the houses had that depressing, almost terrible, look of having seen better days. The plaster was peeling off the stucco walls, and here and there a window was broken. There was a look of indescribable grime and dirt, even on the pavements.
At last the driver drew up opposite the very last house in the street, one that overlooked a railway bridge.
“I reckon it’s here,” he said looking round dubiously.
Jean told herself that there must be some mistake. The house looked even more forlorn than did its neighbours, and while she was glancing up at the gray crusted walls and dirty windows, she heard the shriek of a train, and a moment later there came a deafening roar.
“Come, miss! This is 200, Cuthbert Street, right enough. You give me my fare, and let me go off,” said the man rather roughly. “I’m on another job in a few minutes, and this is such an out-of-the-way part.”
She paid him the big sum marked on the taximeter, took her hold-all out of the cab, and with a slight sensation of fear, as well as of deep surprise, she pressed the top one of the four knobs which seemed to indicate that the house had four occupiers.
For what seemed a considerable while nothing happened; and she pressed the second knob. Then, at last, a slatternly looking woman opened the door and looked at her disagreeably.
“You’re not wanting Mrs. Stratford?” she asked.
“Does Miss Rachel North live here? I’ve come to stay with her,” said Jean, trembling a little.