After a few days it occurred to me to go to the office of Mr. J.M.M. Baxter—the solicitor who had sold Holmescroft to M'Leod. I explained I had some notion of buying the place. Would he act for me in the matter?
Mr. Baxter, a large, greyish, throaty-voiced man, showed no enthusiasm. “I sold it to Mr. M'Leod,” he said. “It 'ud scarcely do for me to start on the running-down tack now. But I can recommend—”
“I know he's asking an awful price,” I interrupted, “and atop of it he wants an extra thousand for what he calls your clean bill of health.”
Mr. Baxter sat up in his chair. I had all his attention.
“Your guarantee with the house. Don't you remember it?”
“Yes, yes. That no death had taken place in the house since it was built: I remember perfectly.”
He did not gulp as untrained men do when they lie, but his jaws moved stickily, and his eyes, turning towards the deed boxes on the wall, dulled. I counted seconds, one, two, three—one, two, three up to ten. A man, I knew, can live through ages of mental depression in that time.
“I remember perfectly.” His mouth opened a little as though it had tasted old bitterness.
“Of course that sort of thing doesn't appeal to me.” I went on. “I don't expect to buy a house free from death.”
“Certainly not. No one does. But it was Mr. M'Leod's fancy—his wife's rather, I believe; and since we could meet it—it was my duty to my clients at whatever cost to my own feelings—to make him pay.”