“Well, Jack’s method was just to slit ’em up with a razor, frontwise and from south to north, and not a blessed word spoken. No one’s touched ’im yet, not for efficiency, but this new chap, ’e looks like catching Jack up. _And_ at Jack’s own game, razor and all. Makes a man fair sick, sir, to see the completed work. Just slits ’em up as clean as you or me might slit up a vealanam-pie. We was laying bets on ’im over at Vine Street only to-night, curious like to see whether ’e’d beat Jack’s record. But it’ll take some beating, I give you my word. Up to date this chap ’as only done in twelve in three weeks--not that that’s ’alf bad, seeing as how ’e’s new to the game, more or less.” “Oh, rather, more or less!” said Mr. Trevor faintly. “Twelve! Good God--only twelve! But why--why don’t you catch the ghastly man?” “Ho, why don’t we!” said the policeman. “Becos we don’t know ’ow, that’s why. Not us! It’s the little one-corpse men we’re good for, not these ’ere big artists. Look at Jack the Ripper--did we catch ’im? Did we? And look at Julian Raphael--did we catch ’im? I’m asking you.” “I know you are,” said Mr. Trevor gratefully. “Thank you.” “I don’t want your thanks,” said the policeman. “I’m just warning you.” Mr. Trevor gasped: “Warning _me_!” “You’ve said it,” said the policeman. “You don’t ought to be out alone at this time of night, an ’earty young chap like you. These twelve ’e’s already done in were all ’earty young chaps. ’E’s partial to ’em ’earty, I do believe. And social gents some of ’em was, too, with top-’ats to hand, just like you might be now, sir, coming ’ome from a smoking-concert. Jack the Ripper all over again, that’s wot I say. Except that this ’ere new corpse-fancier, ’e don’t seem to fancy women at all.” “A chaps’ murderer, what!” said Mr. Trevor faintly. “Ha-ha! What?” “You’ve said it,” said the policeman. “But you never know your luck, sir. And maybe as ’ow thirteen’s your lucky number.” Mr. Trevor lays emphasis on the fact that throughout he treated the constable with the courtesy due from a gentleman to the law. He merely said: “Constable, I am now going home. I do not like you very much. You are an alarmist. And I hope that when you go to sleep to-night your ears swell so that when you wake up in the morning you will be able to fly straight to heaven and never be seen or heard of again. You and your razors and your thirteens!” “Ho, they ain’t mine, far from it!” said the policeman, and even as he spoke a voice crashed upon the silence from the direction of Mount Street. The voice belonged to a tall figure in black and white, and on his head was a top-hat that shone under the pallid moon like a monstrous black jewel. “That there,” said the policeman, “is a Noise.” “He’s singing,” said Mr. Trevor. “I’ll teach ’im singing!” said the policeman. Sang the voice: