between four walls. But if you say that kind of thing outside you might find yourself in Queer Street. Those excellent young men—that excellent young James McAuley—paid you for the month in advance. You 've no proof they did the damage."
"They 're responsible," said Mr. Postlethwaite doggedly, "so are you. Last man six months ago was a vegetarian. Tried to raise spirits in the place. Did raise them. Haunted now, for all I know. All your fault."
"Now, Mr. Postlethwaite," said Mr. Kirby firmly, "one thing at a time. If you have let Greystones get into that condition against my advice, you have been exceedingly lucky to get two tenants, mad or sane, for even a few weeks in the course of a year. Upon my soul, I 'm getting tired of Greystones, and all the rest of 'em. I 've a good mind …"
As a matter of fact, Mr. Kirby had no good mind to give up his connection with Greystones or with any other of old Mr. Postlethwaite's follies. They were almost the only thing in his profession which amused him.
"Well, what you going to do?" snapped the old gentleman again.
