murdered, and where was the murderer?

[64]

“That comes,” said the violinist to the landlady, “of letting a man into the house who refuses to give his name.”

The landlady wrung her hands. She saw ruin staring her in the face.

“He’s off, of course,” continued the violinist, “and Mary” (the name of the servant) “lies downstairs, murdered in cold blood.”

A sound sleeper, indeed, must Mary have been to have slept through the music, and the dancing, and the cries of terror. The silence that reigned below was confirmation of the violinist’s assumption. Of all suppositions, it was the most reasonable. Who would go downstairs to corroborate it? Not one had sufficient courage.

Meanwhile, events progressed in front of the house. A policeman, attracted by the sounds of music, was drawn thitherwards, and, seeing a man kneeling on the pavement, supporting a woman, he quickened his steps.

“What’s up?” demanded the policeman.

[65]

[65]

“Murder! murder!” gasped the man.

The woman’s white shoes, bedabbled in blood, met the policeman’s eye.

“There! there!” cried the man, pointing to the passage.

The policeman was immediately encompassed by the other frightened faces.

“You’re just in time,” said the violinist. “There’s been murder done.”

“Who’s been murdered?” asked the policeman.

“That’s to be found out,” was the answer. “It’s a girl, we believe.”

“Ah,” remarked the policeman, with a certain thoughtfulness; “the last was a girl—an unfortunate girl—and he’s not been caught.”

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