"I sold it to Mr. M'Leod," he said. "It 'ud scarcely
do for me to start on the running-down tack now. But I can
recommend--"
"I know he's asking an awful price," I interrupted, "and atop of
it he wants an extra thousand for what he calls your clean bill
of health."
Mr. Baxter sat up in his chair. I had all his attention.
"Your guarantee with the house. Don't you remember it?"
"Yes, yes. That no death had taken place in the house since it
was built: I remember perfectly."
He did not gulp as untrained men do when they lie, but his jaws
moved stickily, and his eyes, turning towards the deed boxes on
the wall, dulled. I counted seconds, one, two, three--one, two,
three up to ten. A man, I knew, can live through ages of mental
depression in that time.
"I remember perfectly." His mouth opened a little as though it
had tasted old bitterness.
"Of course that sort of thing doesn't appeal to me." I went on.
"I don't expect to buy a house free from death."
"Certainly not. No one does.
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