I sighed; I was in for it once more. A dozen fresh keys, a dozen fresh orders to view-in a word, a wasted, weary week. Mr. Gascoigne drummed with his fingers on his office table, and, after a pause, said:
"I have left the best one to the last."
"Indeed!" said my wife, brightening up.
"The house that cannot fail," said he; "a chance seldom met with-perhaps once in a lifetime. I shall not have it long on my books; it will be snapped up in no time. It possesses singular advantages."
"Where is it?" asked my wife eagerly.
"In Lamb's Terrace, No. 79. Detached and charmingly situated. Ten bedrooms, three reception rooms, two bath rooms, hot and cold water to top floor, commodious kitchen and domestic offices, conservatory, stabling, coach house, coachman's rooms over, two stalls and loose box, large garden well stocked with fruit trees, and two greenhouses."
My wife's eyes sparkled. I also was somewhat carried away, but I soon cooled down. Such an establishment would be far beyond my means.
"To be let on lease?" I inquired.
"To be let on lease," Mr. Gascoigne replied.
"The rent would be too high," I observed.
"I don't think so. Ninety pounds a year."
"What?" I cried.
"Ninety pounds a year," he repeated.
I looked at my wife; her face fairly beamed. She whispered to me, "A prize! Why did we not come here before? It would have saved us a world of trouble."
For my part, I could not understand it. Ninety pounds a year! It was a ridiculous rent for such a mansion.
I turned to the agent. "Is there a care-taker in the house?"
"No," he replied, "it is quite empty."
"Has it been long unlet?"
"Scarcely any time."
"The tenant has only just left it, I suppose?"
"The tenant has not been living in it."
"He has been abroad?"
"I really cannot say. I know nothing of his movements. You see, we are not generally acquainted with personal particulars. A gentleman has a house which he wishes to let, and he places it in our hands. All that we have to do is to ascertain that the particulars with which he furnishes us are correct. We let the house, and there is an end of the matter so far as we are concerned."
I recognized the common sense of this explanation, and yet there appeared to me something exceedingly strange in such a house being to let at so low a rent, and which had just lost a tenant who had not occupied it.
"Is it in good repair?" I asked.
"Frankly, it is not; but that is to your advantage."
"How do you make that out?"
"Because the landlord is inclined to be unusually liberal in the matter. He will allow the incoming tenant a handsome sum in order that he may effect the repairs in the manner that suits him best. There is a little dilapidation, I believe, in one or two of the rooms, a bit of the flooring loose here and there, some plaster has dropped from the ceilings, and a few other such trifling details to be seen to; and the garden, I think, will want attention."
"The house seems to be completely out of repair?"
"Oh, no, not at all; I am making the worst of it, so that you shall not be disappointed. But there is the money provided to set things in order."
"Roughly speaking, what sum does the landlord propose to allow?"
"Roughly speaking, a hundred pounds or so."
"About one-third," I remarked, "of what I should judge to be necessary."
"Not at all; a great deal can be done with a hundred pounds; and my client might feel disposed to increase the amount. You can examine the house and see if it suits you, which I feel certain it will."
Here my wife broke in. She had listened impatiently to my questions, and had nodded her head in approval of every answer given by the agent to the objections I had raised.
"I am sure it will suit us," she said. "The next best thing to building a house for one's self is to have a sufficient sum of money allowed to spend on one already built; to repair it, and paint and paper it after our own taste."
"I agree with you, madam," said the agent, "and you will find the landlord not at all a hard man to deal with. He makes only one stipulation-that whoever takes the house shall live in it."
"Why, of course we should live in it," said my wife. "What on earth should we take it for if we didn't?"
"Quite so," said the agent.
"I should like to ask two more questions," I said. "Are the drains in good order?"
"The drains," replied the agent, "are perfection."
"And is it damp?"
"It is as dry," replied the agent, "as a bone."
Some further conversation ensued, in which, however, I took no part, leaving the management to my wife, who had evidently set her heart upon moving to No. 79 Lamb's Terrace. The agent handed her the keys with a bow and a smile, and we left his office.
CHAPTER III.
AN OLD FRIEND UNEXPECTEDLY PRESENTS HIMSELF
During the interview my attention had been attracted several times to a peculiar incident. At the extreme end of Mr. Gascoigne's office, close against the wall, was a high desk, with an old-fashioned railing around it, the back of the desk being toward me. When we entered the office no person was visible behind the desk, and no sounds of it being occupied reached my ears; but, happening once to look undesignedly in that direction, I saw a gray head raised above the railings, the owner of which was regarding me, I thought, with a certain eagerness and curiosity. The moment I looked at the head, which I inferred was attached to the body of a clerk in the service of Mr. Gascoigne, it disappeared, and I paid no attention to it. But presently, turning again, I saw it bob up and as quickly bob down; and as this was repeated five or six times during the interview, it made me, in turn, curious to learn the reason of the proceedings. Finally, upon my leaving the office, the head bobbed up and remained above the desk, seemingly following my departure with increasing eagerness.
"My dear," said my wife, as we walked along the street-very slowly, because of the weary day we had had-"at last we have found what we have been searching for so long."
It did not strike me so, but I did not express my opinion. All I said was, "I am tired out, and I am sure you must be."
"I do feel tired, but I'm repaid for it. Yes, this is the very house we have been hunting for; just the number of rooms we want, just the kind of garden we want, and so many things we thought we couldn't afford. Then the stable and coach-house-not that we have much use for them, but it looks well to have them, and to speak of them to our friends in an off-hand way. Then the fruit trees-what money it will save us, gathering the fruit quite fresh as we want it! I have in my eye the paper for the drawing and dining rooms; and your study, my dear, shall be as cozy as money can make it. I have something to tell you-a secret. I have put away-never mind where-a long stocking, and in it there is a nice little sum saved up out of housekeeping pennies. That money shall be spent in decorating No. 79 Lamb's Terrace."
Thus rattled on this wonderful wife of mine, working herself into such a state of rapture at the prospect of obtaining the Ideal Residence I had drawn out for her, and which she believed she had obtained, that I could not help admiring more and more her sanguine temperament and her indomitable resolution. Her pluck, her endurance, her persistence, were beyond praise; such women are cut out for pioneers in difficult undertakings; they never give in, they never know when they are beaten. In the midst of her glowing utterances I heard the sound of rapid steps behind us, and, turning, saw the elderly man, whose head, bobbing up and down in Mr. Gascoigne's office, had so engaged my attention. He had been running after us very quickly, and his breath was almost gone.
"I beg your pardon, I beg