He listened for a moment at the door, and, hearing no sound, made bold to enter. Had Reginald been in, he was prepared to represent that, being on a chance visit to Liverpool, he had been unable to pass the door of an old neighbour without giving him a friendly call.
But he was not put to this shift, for the room was empty. “Gone out to his dinner, I suppose,” said Sam to himself. “Well, I’ll take a good look round while I am here.”
Which he proceeded to do, much to his own satisfaction, but very little to his information, for scarcely a torn-up envelope was to be found to reward the spy for his trouble. The only thing that did attract his attention as likely to be remotely useful was a fragment of a pink paper with the letters “gerskin” on it—a relic Love would have recognised as part of the cover of an old favourite, but which to the inquiring mind of the lawyer appeared to be a document worth impounding in the interests of justice.
As nobody appeared after the lapse of half an hour, Samuel considered his time was being wasted, and therefore withdrew. He looked into the chemist’s shop as he went down, but the chemist was not at home; so he strolled into the greengrocer’s next door, and bought an orange, which he proceeded to consume, making himself meanwhile cunningly agreeable to the lady who presided over the establishment.
“Fine Christmas weather,” said he, looking up in the middle of a prolonged suck.
“Yes,” said the lady.
“Plenty of customers?”
She shrugged her shoulders. Sam might interpret that as he liked.
“I suppose you supply the Corporation next door?” said Sam, digging his countenance once more into the orange.
“Eh?” said the lady.