Adventures of Martin Hewitt by Arthur Morrison Page A

lodger.”
    “You have seen a little more of Mr. Foster, of course?”
    “Well, yes. He has been here so much longer. He was more endurable than
was Captain Pullin, certainly, though he was not always sober. The two
did not love one another, I believe.”
    There the inspector pricked his ears. “They didn’t love one another, you
say, ma’am. Why was that?”
    “Oh, I don’t really know. I fancy Mr. Foster wanted to borrow money or
something. He used to say Captain Pullin had plenty of money, and had once
sunk a ship purposely. I don’t know whether or not this was serious, of
course.”
    Hewitt looked at her keenly. “Have you ever heard him called Captain
Pullin of the Egret ?” he asked.
    “No, I never heard the name of any vessel.”
    “There’s just one thing, Miss Walker,” the inspector said, “that I’m
afraid I must insist on before you go. It’s only a matter of form, of course.
But I must ask you to let me look round your room—I shan’t disturb
it.”
    Miss Walker tossed her head. “Very well then,” she said, turning toward
the door with the Yale lock, and producing the key; “there it is.” And she
flung the door open.
    The inspector stepped within and took a perfunctory glance round. “That
will do; thank you,” he said; “I am sorry to have kept you. I think you may
go now, Miss Walker. You won’t be leaving here to-day altogether, I
suppose?”
    “No, I’m afraid I can’t. Good-morning.”
    As she disappeared by the foot of the stairs the inspector remarked in a
jocular undertone, “Needn’t bother about her. She isn’t strong enough
to cut a hen’s throat.”
    Just then Miss Walker appeared again and attempted to take her umbrella
from the stand—a heavy, tall oaken one. The ribs, however, had become
jammed between the stand and the wall; so Miss Walker, with one hand, calmly
lifted the stand and disengaged the umbrella with the other. “My eyes!”
observed the inspector, “she’s a bit stronger than she looks.”
    The surgeon came upon the landing. “I shall send to the mortuary now,” he
said.
    “I’ve seen all I want to see here. Have you seen the landlady?”
    “No. I think she’s downstairs.”
    They went downstairs and found Mrs. Beckle in the back room, much
agitated, though she was not the sort of woman one would expect to find
greatly upset by anything. She was thin, hard and rigid, with the rigidity
and sharpness that women acquire who have a long and lonely struggle with
poverty. She had at first very little to say. Captain Pullin had lodged with
her before. Last night he had been in all the evening and had gone to bed
about half-past eleven, and by a quarter past everybody else had done so, and
the house was fastened up for the night. The front door was fully bolted and
barred, and it was found so in the morning. No stranger had been in the house
for some days. The only person who had left before the discovery was Mr.
Foster, and he went away when only the servant was up.
    This was unusual, as he usually took breakfast in the house. What had
frightened the girl so much, she thought, was the fact that after the door
had been burst open she peeped into the room, out of curiosity, and was so
horrified at the sight that she ran out of the house. She had always been a
hardworking girl, though of sullen habits.
    The inspector made more particular inquiries as to Mr. Foster, and after
some little reluctance Mrs. Beckle gave her opinion that he was very short of
money indeed. He had lost his ship sometime back through a neglect of duty,
and he was not of altogether sober habits; he had consequently been unable to
get another berth as yet. It was a fact, she admitted, that he owed her a
considerable sum for rent, but he had enough clothes and nautical implements
in his boxes to cover that and more.
    Hewitt had been watching Mrs. Beckle’s face very closely, and now suddenly
asked, with pointed emphasis, “How long