No Place for a Lady Read Online Free PDF Page A

in the builder to assess the building. He would not be able to see the walls and floors for all this stuff.”
    “Let us make a list,” she suggested. Miss Thackery is a great one for making lists.
    We went to the saloon and began itemizing what we must do. Before we had gotten far with it, there was a tap at the doorway, and an elderly gentleman came in. He was tall and lean, with pince-nez glasses and wispy gray hair. He looked like a retired cleric or schoolmaster. His clothing was of good quality, and he wore a gold watch, or at least a watch chain, but the clothes were shiny from prolonged wear.
    “Ladies,” he said, with a gallant bow. “I am Professor Vivaldi. I have come to pay the rent on the attic rooms.” He had a slight trace of an accent. Italian, would it be, with a name like Vivaldi?
    We introduced ourselves, and I got out the receipt book. Like the others, he paid in cash, and like the others, he inquired whether we meant to continue hiring rooms and at what rate. I told him what I had told the others. He seemed distressed and said “Pity,” in a rather pathetic way, but he did not urge us to keep the house operating.
    Then he rose and put on his curled beaver. “I am off to the British Museum. A little work I am preparing on the antiquities in Greece,” he explained. “I used to go there often during the summers when I was teaching at Oxford.”
    We watched from the window as he walked down the street. Here was another unfortunate soul to feel sorry for. I did not think we were very close to the British Museum, but perhaps Bloomsbury was closer than I realized. However far it was, that shiny jacket told me the professor would be walking, and at his age. A sad comedown for an Oxford professor.
    After he had left, Miss Thackery and I discussed our tenants. We agreed that they were a cut above what one would expect to find in such a derelict neighborhood. A professor, an officer’s widow, a young man working upon ‘Change, and Mr. Alger, whose occupation we had not yet learned, but who gave the best appearance of the lot.
    Within a few minutes, there was another clatter of footfalls on the uncarpeted stairs, followed by another tap at the door. My spirits lifted to see it was Mr. Alger who stood, waiting entrance. I do not mean that my heart fluttered in any silly, girlish way, although he was exceedingly handsome. What made me feel better was that he was one tenant who did not make me feel guilty. He looked prosperous, and well able to take care of himself. In short, he looked completely out of place on Wild Street.
    “The day of reckoning is at hand,” he said, entering with a bow and a teasing smile. I looked at him in alarm. “How foolish of me,” he said, laughing. “I do not mean the biblical end of the world, but only rent day.”
    “I feel sure we would have had some harbinger if Armageddon was at hand,” I replied.
    His eyebrows lifted in surprise. His eyes examined me again, minutely. They strayed to Miss Thackery, a very pattern card of respectability, then settled down. When he spoke, his accent was more polite. “My rent is overdue, but with Mrs. Cummings’s death,we hardly knew whom to pay.”
    I got out the receipt book. While I accepted the money and wrote out his receipt, Miss Thackery said, “Perhaps you can give us a little advice, Mr. Alger. We want to have all this excess lumber hauled away. Cathy—Miss Irving—thought a tranter might take the furnishings in lieu of payment.”
    He blinked in astonishment at such unbusinesslike goings-on. “What, give it away?” he asked. “Why do you not sell it?”
    As it was my furniture, I replied, “I fear the price of hiring a wagon might exceed what I would make on selling the lumber. It is not fine furniture, Mr. Alger, but scratched and dented pieces, half with the knobs or handles off.”
    “Except for the Hepplewhite desk,” Miss Thackery added.
    Mr. Alger went to look over the assorted pieces in the saloon. He looked