Mrs Noonan was a stranger in her own house, which had belonged, in fact, to her mother-in-law, which caused her to go softly in her rag hat, and coast along the walls in anticipation of strictures, smiling. She had no friends, but two acquaintances, a carrier and his wife, whom she could seldom bear to disturb. But drank a great deal of tea on her own. And loved her hens. And set store by the presence of a lodger, a decent sort of man, whom she did not see. And was puzzled at last, on running a duster along the landing wainscot, to detect an unorthodox smell coming from under the door of the room that she let. It was so peculiar, not to say nasty, she did at last venture to call, "_Eh, mis-ter__?" And to knock once or twice. To rattle the knob of the locked door, though diffidently, because she could never bring herself to consider the rented room any longer part of Mother's house, let alone her own. "Mister! Mister!" She rattled, and smiled, cocking an ear. "Anything wrong? It is me-Mrs Noonan. "It is Mrs Noonan," she repeated, but fainter. Perhaps that was to reassure herself, but she was not really convinced by the sound of her own name, and went away wondering whether she dare disturb her acquaintances, the carrier and his wife. On deciding not, she put on a better hat, and some shoes, and went to a house several blocks away, where she had noticed from a brass plate that a doctor had set up. The young doctor, who was reading a detective story, and scratching himself through his flies, was bored on being disturbed, but also relieved to be asked for advice, since an unpleasantness at the butcher's over credit. "What sort of smell?" the doctor asked. Mrs Noonan flickered her eyelids. "I dunno, Doctor," she said, and smiled. "A sort of peculiar smell like." She breathed more freely when he fetched his bag, and felt important as they walked along the street, not quite abreast, but near enough to signify that they were temporarily connected. It was still hot, and they trod with difficulty through the pavement of heavy yellow sunlight, which had assisted Dubbo in the painting of his picture. "Had he been depressed?" the doctor asked. "Ah, no," she answered. "Not that you could say. Quiet, though. He was always quiet." "Sick?" "Well." She hesitated. Then, when she had considered, she burst out in amazement, "Yes! Sick! I reckon that dark feller was real sick. And that is what it could be. He could of died!" Her own voice abandoned her to a terrible loneliness in the middle of the street, because the doctor was above a human being. They went on, and she tried to think of her hens, now that that decent blackfellow was gone. When they reached the room door, the doctor asked for a key, but as there was no duplicate, he did not suggest anything else; he burst the papery thing open. They went in on the draught, rather too quickly, and at once were pushed back by the stench. The doctor made a noise, and opened the window. "How long since you saw him?" "Could be three days," Mrs Noonan answered, from behind her handkerchief, and smiled. Dubbo was lying on the bed. He was twisted round, but natural-looking, more like some animal, some bird that had experienced the necessity of dying. There was a good deal of blood, though, on the pillow, on his hands, although it had dried by then, with the result that he could have been lying in the midst of a papier-mâche joke. The doctor was carrying out a distasteful examination. "Is he dead?" Mrs Noonan was asking. "Eh, Doctor? Is he dead? "He is dead," she replied, for herself. "Probably a tubercular haemorrhage," mumbled the doctor. He breathed harder to indicate his disapproval. "Ah," said Mrs Noonan. Then she caught sight of the oil paintings, and was flabbergasted. "What do you make of these, Doctor?" she asked, and laughed, or choked behind her handkerchief. The doctor glanced over his shoulder, but only to frown formally. He certainly had no intention of looking. When he had finished, and given all necessary instructions to that inconsiderable object the landlady, and banged the street door shut, Mrs Noonan prepared to go in search of her acquaintances, the carrier and his wife. But she did look once more at the body of the dead man, and the house was less than ever hers. The body of Alf Dubbo was quickly and easily disposed of. He had left money enough-it was found in a condensed-milk tin-so that the funeral expenses were settled, the landlady was paid, and everybody satisfied. The dead man's spirit was more of a problem: the oil paintings became a source of embarrassment to Mrs Noonan. Finally, the helpful carrier advised her to put them in an auction, and for a remuneration carried them there, where they fetched a few shillings, and caused a certain ribaldry. Mrs Noonan was relieved when it was done, but sometimes wondered what became of the paintings. Not even the auctioneers could have told her that, for their books were lost soon after in a fire. Anyway, the paintings disappeared, and, if not destroyed when they ceased to give the buyers a laugh, have still to be discovered.