' CAN'T you tell me, Mr. Lumley, just what it is that you don't likc
about the rooms?'
There was no mistaking the injured truculence in the landlady's
voice, nor her expression of superhuman patience about to snap
at last. Charles very nearly groaned aloud. Must he explain, point
by point, why he hated living there? Her husband's cough in the
moming, the way the dog barked every time he went in or out, the
greasy mats in the hall? Obviously it was impossible. Why could
she not have the grace to accept the polite lie he had toId her?
In any case he was bound to stick to it. He looked into her beady,
accusing eyes and said as pleasantly as he could, 'Really, Mrs.
Smythe, I don't know what's given you the idea that I don't like
the rooms. I've always said how comfortable they were. But I
told you the other day, I really need something a little nearer my
work.'
' And where do you work? I've asked you that two or three times,
Mr. Lumley, but you've never gven me any answer.'
'What the hell . . .
