I tell you,” I cried warmly. “There’s a terrible crime been committed, and I have sought your assistance.”

“And I’d go and have a look at the premises with you, if you could only tell me where they are. But as you can’t—well, what are we to do, sonny?”

Chapter Four.

The Woman.

“Take me at once to the police-station,” I said firmly. “I must make a statement to your inspector on duty.”

“Not much good, is it, if you can’t tell us where the affair took place?” queried the man, impertinently.

“It is my duty to make the report, and the duty of the police to investigate it,” I answered, annoyed, for it seemed as though he doubted me.

“That’s a nasty cut on your hand,” he remarked. “How did you get it?”

“I cut it myself by accident with the knife.”

“What knife?”

“The knife with which the murders were committed.”

“And what were you doing with it?” inquired the constable, utterly regardless of the strict police regulation which forbids an officer to put any such questions.

“I found it,” I replied.

“Where?”

“On the floor of the room, while I was searching about.”

The man grunted dubiously.

I was well aware of the suspicion which must fall upon me, for I knew there was blood upon my clothes, and that my story possessed a distinct air of improbability.

“Who injured your head like that?” he asked.

In response, I told him how, in crossing a road, I had been knocked down and rendered insensible by a cab, and how, on regaining consciousness, I had found myself under the care of some woman unknown.

He gave vent to a short harsh laugh, as though discrediting my 

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