‘Yes. I have just come from the country, and have no more luggage than this bag. I can pay you for the rooms in advance, if you like.’ ‘Money comes uncommonly handy now that provisions have rose to such a heighth,’ returned Mrs. Evitt, with an insinuating air. ‘Not that I could ever feel an instant’s doubt respecting a young gent of your appearance.’ ‘Money down is the best reference,’ said Edward. ‘I’m a stranger in London. Here’s a sovereign. I suppose that’ll square us if I only keep the rooms a week?’ ‘There’ll be a trifle for boot-cleaning,’ insinuated Mrs. Evitt. ‘Oh, very well.’ ‘And half-a-crown for kitching fire.’ ‘Oh, come now, I won’t stand kitchen fire. You don’t suppose I’m going to dine here. If you bring me up a cup of tea of a morning it is all I shall want, and the fire that boils your kettle will boil mine.’ ‘A trifle for attendance, then.’ ‘I’ll promise nothing. If you make me comfortable, I shall not forget you at parting.’ ‘Very well, sir,’ sighed the landlady. ‘I suppose it will come to the same in the end, but I always think it best for all parties to put things clear.’ She retired into the darkness at the end of the narrow passage, the dark brown wainscot of which was dimly lighted by an old-fashioned oil lamp, and returned in a minute or two with a tallow candle in a capacious tin candlestick. With this light she preceded Mr. Clare up the staircase, whose shallow, uneven steps and heavy balustrade gave evidence of its age. On the first-floor landing Mrs. Evitt paused to recover her breath, and Edward felt an icy thrill of horror as he found himself opposite the bedroom door. ‘Is that the room where that poor woman was murdered?’ he asked. ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mrs. Evitt, with a deprecating sigh, ‘it is the room, and I won’t deceive you. But it has been done up so nice that nobody as ever knew it before would be able to recognise it. My landlord acted very liberal; “anything that paint and paper can do to set you right with your lodgers, Mrs. Evitt, shall be done,” says he. “You’ve been a good tenant,” says he, “always punctual to the minute with your rent,” he says, “and I should take it to heart if you was to suffer.” Come in and look at the room, sir, and you’ll see that there isn’t a more cheerful bedroom in this part of London.’ Mrs. Evitt flung open the door with a flourish of pride, and led the way into the room with uplifted candlestick. ‘That’s a brand new bedstead,’ she said, ‘which cost me two pound ten without the curtains. And there ain’t a inch of carpet or a bit of bedding that was in the room when--when--what you mentioned took place.’