self. I don’t know what he got his pension for, but it must have been a pretty comfortable one, because he paid me regular for over seven years; and I understood at that time, from what he said, that the house was his own. If it wasn’t I can’t say to whom he paid rent. The last time I saw him was a Friday night. He came in here and bought a pound of bacon—out of the back; twelve eggs—breakfast; five pounds of cheese—I never knew anyone who was fonder of cheese, he liked it good; a pound of best butter—there was no margarine nor Australian either in those days; and a pound of candles. I’ve never seen or heard anything of him since; and, as I say, that’s more than twenty years ago.”
“But what became of him?”
“That’s more than I can tell you. Perhaps you can tell me. You see, it was this way.”
Mr. Kennard was communicative. Business was slack just then. Apparently I had hit upon a favourite theme.
“Mr. Robertson was one of your quiet kind. Kept himself to himself; lived all alone; seemed to know no one; no one ever came to see him. He never even had any letters; because, afterwards, the post-man told me so with his own lips; he said he’d never known of his having a letter all the time he was in this district. Sometimes nothing would be been of him for three weeks together. Whether he went away or simply shut himself up indoors I never could make out. He was the least talkative old chap I ever came across. When you asked him a question which he didn’t want to answer, which was pretty well always, he pretended he was silly and couldn’t understand. But he was no more silly than I was; eccentric, that was all. Anyhow, when the weeks slipped by, and he wasn’t seen about, no one thought it odd, his habits being generally known. When quarter day came round I sent my little girl, Louisa—she’s married now,
