Chapter VII.—The Perils of a Pretty FaceThe following morning, shortly after ten o'clock, Larose rang the bell of number 28 Lissom street, and a slatternly-looking woman of about middle age, with inflamed eyes, answered the door.
The street was a poor-class one, and if Larose had not been impressed by the look of the house from outside, his unfavorable opinion of things generally, deepened when the door was opened. The passage looked dirty and untended, the linoleum was worn, and full of holes, and the unpleasant smell of unventilated rooms offended his nostrils.
“I want to get a few details of the late Mr. Wedlake's life,” he said most politely. “I understand he used to live here.”
“But he's been dead now for some weeks,” snapped the woman sharply. “He died the beginning of last month.
