“When she dies,” he went on, “that house in Great Ormond Street will be mine; that and a snug bit--the old girl banks at Barclay’s. She hasn’t got a relation in the world but me. Some sort of second cousin of Grigg’s used to live with her, but they rowed; she’d row with an archangel. I don’t know where Clara Citron--that was the cousin’s name--is now.” “Well, good-night, old fellow,” I said. “Wait a bit. You see property’s going up at such a devil of a rate in Bloomsbury. The house alone will bring in a tidy income, let out in flats. I shall do it up and charge good rents and keep it select. Everything on the square, you know.” He gave his suggestive grin and dropped my hand. I wiped it mechanically as I pulled Wood’s bell, and drummed on his knocker. The landlady kept me waiting; it was a trick she had. When at last she opened the door she asked me acrimoniously: “Aint the bell enough, but you must go playin’ on the knocker and bringing a person’s ’art into their mouths?” A week later Orion came to my rooms. It was about nine in the evening--Saturday evening. I was just off to the “Oxford,” and told him so. But he caught me by the sleeve and said feverishly: “Haven’t you heard?” “What?” “My aunt--Mrs. Grigg, you know. She--she’s murdered.” He sat down in the saddlebag chair by the fire. Yes, the same saddlebag. That shabby old thing you are sitting in, with the fallen springs and the shiny mark of many fingers on the arms. Don’t get up. I brought out the bottle and gave him a nip of whisky. He was shaking all over like a little clay-tinted marionette. “Murdered!” I said, the vivid image of the old woman coming back. “Murdered!” “Yes; just now.” He made a gesture for more whisky. The glass he held was dancing a jig in his hand. I noticed--it seemed an odd thing to notice at such a time--how clean his hands were. One does notice unimportant things. “The old woman--her servant--has just come round to tell me,” he continued. “Haven’t you heard?” “Heard! How could I?” “I forgot. Of course you couldn’t. It’s enough to confuse a fellow, isn’t it? Murdered!” “Yes. But how?” “I’m going to tell you. Is there any more whisky? Thanks. It is Saturday night and the servant had gone out to shop. She always shops late on Saturday--when she doesn’t do it on Sunday morning. On Sunday morning in the Lane you can get a very decent fowl cheap. My aunt was left alone in Great Ormond Street. Am I making myself quite clear? She must have been cooking some mess over the dining-room fire; a pot had boiled over on the hob. She was stabbed--just above the heart. Isn’t it awful? Thanks, old man. It--it pulls me together. Come up to my place. The old woman’s waiting. I don’t know what to do first. She came straight to me. She--the other one, my aunt--is lying on the dining-room hearthrug. Well--thanks.”