But the street was entirely deserted. He seemed to be on the
very summit of the hill; for all the roads were a-tilt. Though
the evening was falling fast, no light appeared in any of the
houses and the street lamps were yet unlit. Save for the distant
bourdon of the traffic which rose to his ears like the beating of
the surf, the breeze rustling the bushes in the gardens was the
only sound.
Desmond started to walk back slowly the way he had come.
Presently, his eyes caught the gleam of a light from above a
front door. When he drew level with it, he saw that a gas-jet was
burning in the fanlight over the entrance to a neat little
two-story house which stood by itself in a diminutive garden. As
by this time he was thoroughly sick of wandering aimlessly about,
he went up to the neat little house and rang the bell.
A maid-servant in a cap and apron who seemed to be drawn to the
scale of the house, such an insignificant little person she was,
opened the door.
"Oh, sir," she exclaimed when she saw him, "was it about the
rooms?"
And she pointed up at the fan-light where, for the first time,
Desmond noticed a printed card with the inscription-:
"Furnished Rooms to Let."
The servant's unexpected question put an idea into Desmond's
head.
Pages:
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320