He was the man of the bull-chase--Sergeant Letcher (as the sentry had named him) of the North Wilts.
Nobody answered Mr.Trapp's knock, though he repeated it four or five times.

He stepped back into the roadway and scanned the unshuttered upper windows.

They were uncurtained, too, every one, and grimed with dust: and through this dust we could see rows of cast-off suits dangling within like limp suicides.
"Very odd," commented Mr.Trapp.

"You're sure he said five o'clock ?" "Sure," said I.
"Besides--five o'clock or six--why can't the old skin-flint answer ?" He knocked again vigorously.

A blind-cord creaked, a window went up over a ship-chandler's shop next door, and a man thrust out his head.
"What's wrong ?" he demanded.
"Sorry to disturb ye, Clemow; but old Rodriguez, here, bespoke us to sweep his chimneys at five, and we can't get admittance." "Why, I heard him unbolt for ye an hour ago!" said the ship-chandler.
"He woke me up with his noise, letting down the chain." The door had a latch-handle and Mr.Trapp grasped it.