And then he traversed the room like a hound on thescent， skimming the walls， considering the corners ofthe bulging matting on his hands and knees， rummagingmantel and tables， the curtains and hangings， thedrunken cabinet in the corner， for a visible sign， unableto perceive that she was there beside， around， against，within， above him， clinging to him， wooing him， callinghim so poignantly through the finer senses that even hisgrosser ones became cognisant of the call. Once again heanswered loudly： “Yes， dear！” and turned， wild-eyed， togaze on vacancy， for he could not yet discern form andcolour and love and outstretched arms in the odour ofmignonette. Oh， God！ whence that odour， and since whenhave odours had a voice to call？ Thus he groped.
He burrowed in crevices and corners， and found corksand cigarettes. These he passed in passive contempt. Butonce he found in a fold of the matting a half-smokedcigar， and this he ground beneath his heel with a greenand trenchant oath. He sifted the room from end to end.
He found dreary and ignoble small records of many aperipatetic tenant； but of her whom he sought， and whomay have lodged there， and whose spirit seemed to hoverthere， he found no trace.
And then he thought of the housekeeper.
He ran from the haunted room downstairs and to a doorthat showed a crack of light. She came out to his knock.
He smothered his excitement as best he could.
“Will you tell me， madam，” he besought her， “whooccupied the room I have before I came？”
“Yes， sir. I can tell you again. ’Twas Sprowls and Mooney，as I said. Miss B’retta Sprowls it was in the theatres，but Missis Mooney she was. My house is well known forrespectability. The marriage certificate hung， framed， on anail over—”
“What kind of a lady was Miss Sprowls—in looks， Imean？”
“Why， black-haired， sir， short， and stout， with a comicalface. They left a week ago Tuesday.”
“And before they occupied it？”
“Why， there was a single gentleman connected with thedraying business. He left owing me a week. Before himwas Missis Crowder and her two children， that stayed fourmonths； and back of them was old Mr. Doyle， whose sonspaid for him. He kept the room six months. That goesback a year， sir， and further I do not remember.”
He thanked her and crept back to his room. The roomwas dead. The essence that had vivified it was gone. Theperfume of mignonette had departed. In its place was theold， stale odour of mouldy house furniture， of atmospherein storage.
The ebbing of his hope drained his faith. He sat staringat the yellow， singing gaslight. Soon he walked to the bedand began to tear the sheets into strips. With the blade ofhis knife he drove them tightly into every crevice aroundwindows and door. When all was snug and taut he turnedout the light， turned the gas full on again and laid himselfgratefully upon the bed.
* * *
It was Mrs. McCool’s night to go with the can for beer.
So she fetched it and sat with Mrs. Purdy in one of thosesubterranean retreats where house-keepers foregather andthe worm dieth seldom.
“I rented out my third floor， back， this evening，” saidMrs. Purdy， across a fine circle of foam. “A young man tookit. He went up to bed two hours ago.”
“Now， did ye， Mrs. Purdy， ma’am？” said Mrs. McCool，with intense admiration. “You do be a wonder for rentin’
rooms of that kind. And did ye tell him， then？” sheconcluded in a husky whisper， laden with mystery.
“Rooms，” said Mrs. Purdy， in her furriest tones， “arefurnished for to rent. I did not tell him， Mrs. McCool.”
“’Tis right ye are， ma’am； ’tis by renting rooms we kapealive. Ye have the rale sense for business， ma’am. There bemany people will rayjict the rentin’ of a room if they betould a suicide has been after dyin’ in the bed of it.”
“As you say， we has our living to be making，” remarkedMrs. Purdy.
“Yis， ma’am； ’tis true. ’Tis just one wake ago this day Ihelped ye lay out the third floor， back. A pretty slip of acolleen she was to be killin’ herself wid the gas—a swatelittle face she had， Mrs. Purdy， ma’am.”
“She’d a-been called handsome， as you say，” said Mrs.
Purdy， assenting but critical， “but for that mole she hada-growin’ by her left eyebrow. Do fill up your glass again，Mrs. McCool.”
