They crossed the street and went to the house in question. Here, however, they were puzzled, for there were two entrances, one on the brownstone stoop and the other beneath it. They decided on the lower, it being more accessible. There was a bell-pull and John, who had once put one into a wall, understood what it was for and used it promptly.
A white woman, who looked like she was Irish, opened the door.
"I see you have rooms and board," John ventured. "We want to see about them."
The woman smiled agreeably. "The madam is up-stairs. You can go up the steps and I'll let you in at the upper door, or you can come through here."
"This way is all right," John said. And the woman led them into a little hallway adjoining a long dining-room, the white-clothed tables of which could be seen through the open door. On the same floor, just beyond, was the kitchen. They knew this, for they caught a glimpse of a big range above which hung a row of polished pots and pans.
The stairway to the upper floor was quite narrow, and John had some difficulty in ascending it with his valises and the mute Dora, who was nervously attempting to hold his arm. However, the ascent was made, and they were shown into a big parlor with windows looking out on the street. The floor was covered by a well-worn but clean carpet, the walls held pictures of various sorts—crayon portraits, steel engravings, machine-made oil landscapes and a few water-colors in every style of frame imaginable.
"Oh, Mrs. McGwire!" the servant called up the flight of stairs which reached the next floor above. "Are you there?"
"Yes, Mrs. Clark. What is it?"
"Rooms and board," was the answer.
"Very well. I'm coming right down."