“That one--the middle one in the block.”
“Then what did you ask me for, a minute ago?”
I did not see my way out. He waited for an answer, but got tired before I could think of one that would fit the case and said:
“How is it that you haven’t an overcoat on, such a day as this?”
“I--well, I never wear them. It doesn’t seem cold to me.”
He thought awhile, with his eye on me, then said, with a sort of sigh:
“Well, maybe you are all right--I don’t know--but you want to walk pretty straight while you are on my beat; for, morals or no morals, blamed if I take much stock in you. Move on, now.”
Then he turned away, swinging his club by its string. But his eye was over his shoulder, my way; so I had to cross to that house, though I didn’t want to, any more. I did not expect it to be Smith’s house, now that I was so out of luck, but I thought I would ring and ask, and if it proved to be some one else’s house, then I would explain that I had come to examine the gas meter and thus get out the back way and be all right again. The door was opened by a middle-aged matron with a gentle and friendly face, and she had a sweet serenity about her that was a notable contrast to my nervous flurry. I asked after Smith and if he lived there, and to my surprise and gratitude she said that this was his home.
“Can I see him? Can I see him right away--immediately?”
No; he was gone downtown. My rising hopes fell to ruin.