They had come to Greenheys, which, when De Quincey’s father built a country house there in 1791, was “separated from the last outskirts of Manchester by an entire mile.” It is by no means separated now, and good houses of the mid-Victorian period are to be had cheaply because good tenants dislike bad neighbours. Travers had one of these survivals from an urbane past on his books and Sam hugged himself for thinking of it now: that house had proved itself the whitest of white elephants. Mr. Minnifie, exhilarated by the spicy smells of Greenheys, was no longer a timid excursionist looking only where his guide bade him, but a house hunter hot upon the trail, with eyes that spied on each side of their route. “Ah!” he called suddenly. “Stop!” The cabman stopped. “But we’re not there,” said Sam, rather blankly. “I think we are,” said Minnifie, and got out of the cab. Sam followed, in that leaden state of mind which often precedes inspiration. What had attracted Minnifie was a semi-detached house at a corner, which the trams passed. Opposite were shops, and there was a lively stir in the street. Certainly, Mrs. Minnifie would have something to see here when she looked out of the window. Sam knew that pair of houses, and what he knew made him fear that he would not, this time, rid Mr. Travers of the white elephant on his books. They were good houses enough, but the people who had furniture to fill them were not the sort of people who welcomed shops opposite their windows and trams past their gate, so that both had been long empty. Now, however, they were for sale, under a will, and a quick sale was wanted that the estate might be wound up. They would certainly go cheaply on that account, and the more so since two attempted auctions had proved abortive. There had been no offers. And here was Mr. Minnilie plainly delighted, and those houses not in Travers’ charge, but in that of a rival agency! Sam felt depressed, then as dawn follows darkness, lie thought of what Travers had said, that Sam’s word was as good as his own. It was going to be, and Mr. Minnifie’s money as good in Sam’s hands as in those of Calverts’, the legitimate agents for this pair of houses. He stepped out briskly now, the ardent salesman. “One moment, Mr. Minnifie. I haven’t the key of this house with me, but it is at the shop opposite. I will get it.” His quick eye had read so much on Calverts’ notice board, but by the time he returned, Minnifie had also seen that rival name on the board and mentioned the fact. “I know,” said Sam. “The board has not been altered, but this property is in my hands now.” Which was true. The house enchanted Minnifie, who had made up his mind in advance to be enchanted. And, of course, rooms may be in need of decoration, but good proportions tell, even on a Mr. Minnifie. This house was very different from the jerry-built villas of Whalley Range. “What’s price?” he asked. “Three hundred and fifteen pounds,” said Sam.