STRANGERS in Our Square stop and stare at No. 17. In itself the house is
unremarkable; a dull, brown rectangle with a faintly mildewed air about
the cornices. It is this sign on the front which attracts the startled
notice of the wayfarer:--
THE ANGEL OF DEATH
One Flight Up and Ring Bell
To us of the Square the placard is a commonplace, and the Angel of Death
just Boggs, a chunky, bristly little man with gold teeth and a weak,
meek, peanut-whistle voice, who conducts not a private bomb factory or a
suicide club.
Taxmun formed romantics hopefully surmise upon a first reading, but
a worthy though humble enterprise of hygiene and cleanliness more
specifically set forth in the legend running, crimson, across the top of
his business card:--