At the end of half an hour, which he gave to a careful consideration of his plans, Bofinger returned to the boarding-house. A plot of burned and scrawny grass served as a front lawn. A cast-iron nymph, relic of prosperity, stained and chipped, its head-dress holding the straws of an old nest, gave the note to the place and prophesied the interior. At his pull, the loose knob, as though unaccustomed to use, came forth so far that he feared he had wrenched it bodily out, before a faint twinkle from within persisted to his ears. Three times he repeated this operation, before a shadow on the glass announced a slow relief.
A frail old woman, moving tediously, ushered him into the hall, shading her weak eyes while she awaited his errand.
Bofinger, drawing forth his pocketbook, selected a business card, discarded that for one that bore his name alone, and finally, after a moment's consideration, replaced the pocketbook and said:
"Just tell the lady who came in a half an hour ago that a gentleman wants to speak to her."
"Ain't ye goin' to send no name?" the woman asked in dull astonishment.
"It is not necessary."
"And ye don't know her well?"
"I don't."
"I guess, then, I've got to climb up," she answered wearily. "I was hopin' you might go up. What did ye say her name was?"