When he knocked at the door of the house mentioned by her, he told himself that of course he had come on a fool’s errand; yet, when the woman who answered the door—a highly respectable person, and frightfully dirty, in a respectable way—told him ‘that no Moores lived here,’ he felt as though someone had struck him. He must have looked extremely taken back, because the respectably-dirty lady roused herself sufficiently from the dignity that seemed to cling to her as closely as her grime, and condescended to say she had only been there a short time, ‘an’ p’raps Mrs. Morgan, nex’ door, could give him the information he was lookin’ for.’ Wyndham had taken the hint—he scarcely knew why—and had gone ‘nex’ door,’ to receive, as he honestly believed, the same answer. But no! Mrs. Morgan, in a tight-fitting gown, draggled at the tail, and with her sparse front locks in curl-papers (she said ‘curling-tongs an’ methylated spirit played the very juice wid your hair’), gave him a very handsome amount of news about the missing Moore. She was a very genial person, in spite of the curl-papers—or perhaps because of them—and she invited Wyndham into her ‘best front’ in the most cordial way—even though she knew he was not going to take it. Yes; of course she had known Mr. Moore. He used to live next door, but some months ago his wife died, and he had seemed a little unsettled like since. ‘There was a girl?’ ‘Oh yes—Ella Moore.’ ‘Their daughter?’ ‘Law, no, sir! Her niece, poor Mrs. Moore would call her at times, but I don’t think she was even that. I don’t know the truth of it rightly; but that girl was “quite the lady,” sir, round here. An’ she found some people who took her up an’ had her as governess for their children—big people out in some o’ the squares. Mrs. Moore had her with her when she took the house nex’ door. Ella was a little creature then, an’ used to be cryin’ always for someone—her mother, I used to say. But Mrs. Moore was very dark, entirely, an’ never let out. Is it about Ella you’re comin’, sir? I’d be glad to hear good of her. But I suppose you know she fled out of Moore’s house one night, an’ was never seen again? Some said as how Moore wanted to murder her, or did murder her; but he wasn’t a man for that, I say. Any way, up he sticks, and disappears after a bit. The police looked into it for a while, but nothin’ came of it. They do say’—mysteriously—‘that Moore wanted to marry her, and that she’d have nothin’ to do with him. But, law, some people would say anythin’! An’, of course, he was old enough to be her father. You wouldn’t be likely to know anythin’ of her, sir?’—in the wheedling tone of the confirmed gossip. ‘No,’ says Wyndham calmly. ‘What I want is the man Moore. You can tell me nothing, then?’