and ten p.m., and, equally in deference to Glover Street opinion, excluded her between ten p.m. and ten a.m.

‘I want you to come across at once,’ Mrs Drabdump gasped. ‘Something has happened to Mr Constant.’

‘What! Not bludgeoned by the police at the meeting this morning, I hope?’

‘No, no! He didn’t go. He is dead.’

‘Dead?’ Grodman’s face grew very serious now.

‘Yes. Murdered!’

‘What?’ almost shouted the ex-detective. ‘How? When? Where? Who?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t get to him. I have beaten at his door. He does not answer.’

Grodman’s face lit up with relief.

‘You silly woman! Is that all? I shall have a cold in my head. Bitter weather. He’s dog-tired after yesterday—processions, three speeches, kindergarten, lecture on “the moon”, article on co-operation. That’s his style.’ It was also Grodman’s style. He never wasted words.

‘No,’ Mrs Drabdump breathed up at him solemnly, ‘he’s dead.’

‘All right; go back. Don’t alarm the neighbourhood unnecessarily. Wait for me. Down in five minutes.’ Grodman did not take this Cassandra of the kitchen too seriously. Probably he knew his woman. His small, bead-like eyes glittered with an almost amused smile as he withdrew them from Mrs Drabdump’s ken, and shut down the sash with a bang. The poor woman ran back across the road and through her door, which she would not close behind her. It seemed to shut her in with the dead. She waited in the passage. After an age—seven minutes by any honest clock—Grodman made his appearance, looking as dressed as usual, but with unkempt hair and with disconsolate side-whisker. He was not quite used to that side-whisker yet, for it had only recently come within the margin of cultivation. In active service Grodman had been clean-shaven, like all members of the profession—for surely your detective is the most versatile of actors. Mrs Drabdump closed the street door quietly, and pointed to the stairs, fear operating like a polite desire to give him precedence. Grodman ascended, amusement still glimmering in his eyes. Arrived on the landing he knocked peremptorily at the door, crying, ‘Nine o’clock, Mr Constant; nine o’clock!’ When he ceased there was no other sound or movement. His face grew more serious. He waited, then knocked, and cried louder. He turned the handle, but the door was fast.