is conferred on you by this document. I am not saying this by way of advice, but simply as a statement of the case as it appears to me.”
“What I want to know is, what’s the meaning of those conditions? I suppose, by the way, there is such a house.”
“There certainly is. Camford Street is an old, and not particularly reputable street, one end of which leads into the Westminster Bridge Road. No. 84 is in a terrace. From the exterior—which is as much as I have seen of it—it looks as if it had not been occupied for a considerable period of time. Indeed, according to the neighbours, no one has lived in it for, some say ten, others fifteen, and others twenty years.”
“That sounds nice,” cut in Emily. “If no one has lived in it for all that time I shouldn’t be surprised if it wanted a little cleaning.”
“Not at all improbable, from what it looks like outside. The shutters are up at the window—on that point, I may mention, a man who has a small chandler’s shop on the opposite side of the road, tells rather a singular story. He informed me that, to the best of his knowledge and belief, the last occupant of the house was a man named Robertson. He was an old man. Mr. Kennard, my informant, says that what became of him he does not know. He did not move; there was no attempt to let the place; he simply ceased to be seen about. Nor has a living soul been seen in the house for years. But, he says, some months ago, he is not sure how many, when he got up one morning to open his shop, on looking across the road he saw that all the windows inside were screened by shutters. He declares that not only were there no shutters there the night before, but dirty old blinds which were dropping to pieces, but that he never had seen shutters there before, and, indeed, he doubted if there were such things at any other house in the terrace. If his tale is true, it seems an odd one.”
