His voice echoed up past the cobwebbed landing and seemed to go wandering aloft among unclean mysteries to the very roof.
Nobody answered.
"Mister Rodriguez!" he called again, and waited.

"Let's try the kitchen," he suggested.

"We started with that, last time: and, if my memory holds good, 'tis the only chimney he uses.

He beds in a small room right over us, next the roof, and keeps a fire going there through the winter: but the flue of it leads into the same shaft--a pretty wide shaft as I rec'llect." We groped our way by the foot of the staircase and along a line of cupboards to the kitchen.

The window of this looked out upon a backyard piled with refuse timber, packing-cases, and plaster statuary broken and black with soot.