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She did not seem to belong in that house at all.
Average Jones felt as if he had cracked open one of the grisly
locust shells which cling lifelessly to tree trunks, and had found
within a plump and prosperous beetle.
"Was an advertisement for a trombone player inserted from this
house, ma'am?" he inquired.
"Long ago," said she.
"Am I too late, then?"
"Much. It was answered nearly two months since. I have never,"
said the old lady with conviction, "seen such a frazzled lot of
folks as B-flat trombone players."
"The person who inserted the advertisement--?"
"Has left. A month since."
"Could you tell where he went?"
"Left no address."
"His name was Telford, wasn't it?" said Average Jones strategically.
"Might be," said the old lady, who had evidently formed no favorable
impression of her ex-lodger. "But he called himself Ransom."
"He had a furnished room?"
"The whole third floor, furnished."
"Is it let now?"
"Part of it. The rear."
"I'll take the front room."
"Without even looking at it?"
"Yes.


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