There he knocked upon a door, which was soon opened by a man apparently forty years of age, a man of slightly foreign appearance, with a careworn look, but with as honest a face as you could find anywhere.
"Is this Mr. Cressy?" asked Fred.
"Yes, my name's Cressy," replied the man. He spoke with so slight an accent that it was hardly noticeable.
"I am a reporter from the Gazette," continued Fred.
"Oh!" said the man. "Come in," and as he spoke he looked somewhat embarrassed and anxious, for this was doubtless the first time he had had any dealings with a newspaper. Lying on a bed in an alcove was a woman who looked very ill, and piled in a corner near the door were a couple of boxes and a few pieces of furniture. The stove had not yet been taken down, and some pale embers in it only just kept the chill off the atmosphere. Fred took off his hat, and led the man across the room toward the window.
"Have you been dispossessed?" he asked.
"Yes," said the man, "we must leave to-night."
"Why?" asked the reporter.
Cressy smiled in a ghastly sort of way.
"Because," he replied—"because I have not a cent to my name, sir, and the landlord has got it in for me—and I must go."