The Last Tenant. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

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      "It is the exact thing, Edward," she said, and she took my plans to the agents, who said they were very nice, and that they had on their books just the place she was looking for-with one trifling exception scarcely worth mentioning. But this trifling exception proved ever to be of alarming proportions, was often hydra-headed, and was always insurmountable. Then would she glow with indignation at the duplicity of the agents, and would call them names which, had they been publicly uttered, would have laid us open to a great number of actions for libel and slander. Thus a month passed by, and, except for prostration of spirits, we were precisely where we had been when we commenced. The Ideal Residence was still a castle in Spain.

      One evening, when we were so tired out that we could hardly crawl along, my indomitable wife, after slamming the last street door behind her, informed me that she intended to call upon another house agent whom she had not yet patronized.

      "That will be the ninth, I think," I said, in a mild tone.

      "Yes, the ninth," she said. "They are a dreadful lot. You can't place the slightest dependence upon them."

      Gascoigne was the name of the agent we now visited, and he entertained us in the old familiar way. As a matter of course, he had the very house to suit us; in fact, he had a dozen, and he went through them seriatim. But my wife, who during the past month had learned something, managed, by dint of skillful questioning, to lay her hand on the one weak spot which presented itself in all.

      "I am afraid they will not do," she said, "but we will look at them all the same."

      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

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