It was an odd looking house—apparently a store, for there was a regular shop window, but there was nothing in it but curtains that screened off the interior, and no sign, and the door when he tried it, was locked. But there was a bell handle close beside it, and this he pulled.
The door was opened after quite an interval, to a mere crack, and the voice of an aged woman wanted to know who was there.
“A gentleman to see Mr. David Darley,” Sydney answered.
“You can’t see him,” came back the reply, “He’s been dead these five months.”
“Well, then,” went on Sydney, pushing against the door to prevent any possibility of its being shut in his face, “I want to see some of his relations—his wife, or daughter, or somebody.”
“There ain’t any of them either,” was the reply. “There’s only me.”
“Well, then, I’d like to see you,” Sydney rejoined, feeling that this, too, was to be a wild goose chase, but determined, nevertheless, to leave no stone unturned.
“What do you want to see me about?” went on the old lady. “I don’t know you.”
“I just want to ask you some questions about Mr. Darley. Are you any relation of his?”
“I’m his mother-in-law,” and the door was slowly opened, but only wide enough to admit Sydney, when it was closed behind him with great rapidity.