A ring-burner on a shelf, a kettle, a frying-pan and a few pieces of crockery were its sole appointments.

Apparently the porter was correct in his statement as to Jeffrey's habits.
Returning to the sitting-room, Thorndyke resumed his inspection, pulling out the table drawers, peering inquisitively into cupboards and bestowing a passing glance on each of the comparatively few objects that the comfortless room contained.
"I have never seen a more characterless apartment," was his final comment.

"There is nothing that seems to suggest any kind of habitual activity on the part of the occupant.

Let us look at the bedroom." We passed through into the chamber of tragic memories, and, when Thorndyke had lit the gas, we stood awhile looking about us in silence.
It was a bare, comfortless room, dirty, neglected and squalid.

The bed appeared not to have been remade since the catastrophe, for an indentation still marked the place where the corpse had lain, and even a slight powdering of ash could still be seen on the shabby counterpane.
It looked to me a typical opium-smoker's bedroom.
"Well," Thorndyke remarked at length, "there is character enough here--of a kind.