“Woops-a-daisy,” said the postman. “Too eager, that’s my trouble. Lovely morning, though innit?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Whipplestone, judiciously conceding the point. “It is. Are the present occupants—” He hesitated.

“Gawn. Out last week,” said the postman. “But I’m not to know, am I? People ought to make arrangements, din’ they sir?” He went off, whistling.

The workmen came down their ladders and prepared to make off. They had erected a sign.

The Street is the most “important” of the Capricorns. It is wider and busier than the rest. It runs parallel to the Walk and in fact Messrs. Able and Virtue’s premises lie exactly back-to-back with the little house at No. 1.

“Good morning,” said the roundabout lady at the desk on the left-hand side. “Can I help you?” she pleaded brightly.

Mr. Whipplestone pulled out the most non-committal stop in his F.O. organ and tempered its chill with a touch of whimsy.

“You may satisfy my idle curiosity if you will be so good,” he said. “Ah — concerning No. 1, Capricorn Walk.”

“No. 1, the Walk?” repeated the lady. “Yes. Our notice, ackshally, has only just gone up. For sale with stipulations regarding the basement. I’m not quite sure—” She looked across at the young man with a Pre-Raphaelite hair-do behind the right-hand desk. He was contemplating his fingernails and listening to his telephone. “What is it about the basement, No. 1, the Walk?” she asked.

He clapped a languid hand over the receiver: “Ay’m coping,” he said and unstopped the receiver. “The basement of No. 1,” he rattled into it, “is at present occupied as a pied-à-terre by the owner. He wishes to retain occupancy. The Suggested Arrangement is that total ownership pass to the purchaser and that he, the vendor, become the tenant of the basement at an agreed rent for a specified period.” He listened for a considerable interval. “No,” he said, “ay’m afraid it’s a firm stipulation. Quate. Quate. Yes. Theng you, madam. Good morning.”