“Do you know the name of George Purvis?”
“Yes. It’s some one who has, I think, come to live there lately.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not at all. Never seen him.”
“How long ago did you deliver the first letter addressed to Purvis?”
“About three weeks, I think. But if you want to know more, why don’t you ask the servant? She’s doing the steps now. I daresay she’d tell you all about him.”
I took the man’s advice, and returning to the house found a dirty, ill-dressed girl in canvas apron slopping water over the front steps and rubbing hearthstone upon them.
With some caution I addressed her, and, having slipped half a crown into her hand, told her to say nothing of my inquiries, but to respond to my questions.
“Do you know a gentleman named Mr. George Purvis who lives here?” I asked.
“I know Mr. Purvis, sir, but ’e don’t live ’ere. ’E only calls for his letters sometimes, and missus gives them to him.”