Mrs. Hableton opened the door for him, and in silence led the way, not into her own sitting-room, but into a much more luxuriously furnished apartment, which Gorby guessed at once was that of Whyte’s.  He looked keenly round the room, and his estimate of the dead man’s character was formed at once.

“Fast,” he said to himself, “and a spendthrift.  A man who would have his friends, and possibly his enemies, among a very shady lot of people.”

What led Mr. Gorby to this belief was the evidence which surrounded him of Whyte’s mode of life.  The room was well furnished, the furniture being covered with dark-red velvet, while the curtains on the windows and the carpet were all of the same somewhat sombre hue.

“I did the thing properly,” observed Mrs. Hableton, with a satisfactory smile on her hard face.  “When you wants young men to stop with you, the rooms must be well furnished, an’ Mr. Whyte paid well, tho’ ’e was rather pertickler about ’is food, which I’m only a plain cook, an’ can’t make them French things which spile the stomach.”

The globes of the gas lamps were of a pale pink colour, and Mrs. Hableton having lit the gas in expectation of Mr. Gorby’s arrival, there was a soft roseate hue through the room.  Mr. Gorby put his hands in his capacious pockets, and strolled leisurely through the room, examining everything with a curious eye.  The walls were covered with pictures of celebrated horses and famous jockeys.  Alternating with these were photographs of ladies of the stage, mostly London actresses, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, and other burlesque stars, evidently being the objects of the late Mr. Whyte’s adoration.  Over the mantelpiece hung a rack of pipes, above which were two crossed foils, and under these a number of plush frames of all colours, with pretty faces smiling out of them; a remarkable fact being, that all the photographs were of ladies, and not a single male face was to be seen, either on the walls or in the plush frames.

“Fond of the ladies, I see,” said Mr. Gorby, nodding his head towards the mantelpiece.

“A set of hussies,” said Mrs. Hableton grimly, closing her lips tightly.  “I feel that ashamed when I dusts ’em as never was—­I don’t believe in gals gettin’ their picters taken with ’ardly any clothes on, as if they just got out of bed, but Mr. Whyte seems to like ’em.”

“Most young men do,” answered Mr. Gorby dryly, going over to the bookcase.

“Brutes,” said the lady of the house.  “I’d drown ’em in the Yarrer, I would, a settin’ ‘emselves and a callin’ ’emselves lords of creation, as if women were made for nothin’ but to earn money ’an see ’em drink it, as my ’usband did, which ’is inside never seemed to ’ave enough beer, an’ me a poor lone woman with no family, thank God, or they’d ’ave taken arter their father in ‘is drinkin’ ’abits.”

Mr. Gorby took no notice of this tirade against men, but stood looking at Mr. Whyte’s library, which seemed to consist mostly of French novels and sporting newspapers.