He got out, and insisted on paying the fare, out of his newly-acquired wealth.
“We are now at the beginning of Shepherd’s Bush. The Carthorne road, where I live—I should rather say exist—is a few minutes’ walk from here. It would have been impossible to direct the driver. It would require the exploring instinct of a Stanley or a Livingstone to track me to my lair,” he laughed.
He led Wingate through various mean streets, consisting of two long rows of narrow three-storied houses. Several of them were to let. Most of them bore cards in their windows with the words “Furnished apartments.” Poverty everywhere betrayed its ugly features.
Boyle paused before the door of one of these ill-favoured tenements, and applied a latchkey. Wingate stepped into a narrow hall, covered by a strip of oil-cloth, full of holes, the pattern worn away with hard wear. An evil-smelling lamp hung from the ceiling, shedding a feeble light that was little removed from darkness.
Boyle led him to the end of the passage, and took him into a chamber that extended the width of the house. Quickly he struck a match, and lit a lamp.
Wingate felt terribly depressed. But Boyle, fortified, no doubt, by the unexpected possession of those few providential sovereigns, had recovered his accustomed buoyancy. He waved his hand round the faded apartment with a theatrical air.
“Welcome to my poor abode, the present pied-à-terre of Caleb Boyle, once a member of exclusive clubs, and not an unknown figure in London society.”
Wingate looked round and shuddered inwardly at what he saw. A horsehair sofa, black and stained with age, a carpet, worn threadbare and full of holes, three cane chairs, one easy-chair, worn and bulged out of shape, a cheap chest of drawers, with half the knobs missing. And at the side of the wall opposite the fire-place, a low, narrow single bedstead covered with a darned and patched counterpane. This was flanked by a yellow deal washstand.
Was it possible that anybody who had once lived decently, could draw a breath in this musty and abominable hole? Certainly there was a courage and power of endurance in the man that compelled Wingate’s admiration.
Boyle pushed one of the rickety chairs towards his guest, and crossed to a small hanging cupboard, from the recesses of which he produced a black bottle, which he held up to the lamp.