“I’ll pay three hundred pound for what I like,” said Minnifie, quite fiercely. “I’ve got it in my pocket now.” He was fierce because he was not yet quite sure that his legacy was not phantom gold, and he pulled out a bundle of notes as much to assure himself that they were still where he had put them as with the idea of proving his good faith to Travers. Travers concealed a smile. After all, commission on three hundred pounds is not to be sneezed at, but neither was this the sort of client for whom Traver’s disturbed his habits. “I have myself,” he said, “a large property auction to attend in the city, but Mr. Branstone will go with you to inspect the houses.” He smiled kindly on Sam, and added, lest Minnifie should think his affair, so important to him, underrated by the agent: “Mr. Branstone is my confidential man. When Mr. Branstone tells you anything about the houses you are going to see, it is as if I spoke myself.” “I see,” said Minnifie. “He’s your foreman, and you needn’t tell me you’ll back him up. I know foremen.” “Well, his word is certainly as good as mine. I leave you in safe hands, Mr. Minnifie.” And Travers went out to attend his first auction of the day, which usually happened at eleven o’clock in the morning. Sam and the client took a cab to Whalley Range, where Minnifie inspected several houses which were to be had at about his price. But he was hard to satisfy, and, what was worse, apparently unable to define his reasons for dissatisfaction. As Sam praised this and that about a house, Minnifie admitted that such things were praiseworthy, but he would, please, see another house. Sam was a little piqued and tried his best to be genial, suspecting that Minnifie resented being fobbed off with a “foreman”; and Sam’s best was very good, so that presently the ice was thawed. Minnifle stood at the bow-window of a dining-room and looked up and down the street. It was empty save for a tradesman’s boy. From somewhere round the corner came the diminished rattle of a milk-cart. Minnifle shook his head sadly. “It’s quiet,” he said. “See that road. Nothing stirring. What is there for the missus to look at when she sits in the window?” “It’s morning,” said Sam. “Things will be brisker in the afternoon.” But his tone lacked conviction, and he could not resist the temptation to add: “There’s a cat crossing the road now.” “Come out,” said Minnifle. “This’ull none do,” and when they stood upon the door-step he sniffed the air of Whalley Range with disapproval. “I don’t like it and it’s no use pretending that I do. It’s got a cold smell to me. It isn’t homely.” “I know what you mean,” said Sam, diagnosing the trouble. “Wait a bit.” He gave the cabman an address and was careful to leave the window open. They came to other streets where the scent of yesterday’s fried fish still lingered in the air and the nose of Mr. Minnifle inhaled it greedily. “This is better,” he pronounced.