He bent over the object for a moment, then turned and raced for the street with eyes showing white. “Fuh Gawd’ sake, folks,” he cried, “come hyuh quick! Hyuh Crown, an’ he done dead.” § A group of three white men stood over the body. One was the plain-clothes man with the goatee and stick who had investigated the Robbins’ murder. Behind him stood a uniformed policeman. The third, a stout, leisurely individual, was stooping over the body, in the act of making an examination. “What do you make of it, Coroner?” asked the plain-clothes man. “Knife between fifth and sixth ribs; must have gone straight through the heart.” “Well, he had it comin’ to him,” the detective observed. “They tell me he is the nigger, Crown, who killed Robbins last April. That gives us the widow to work on fer a starter, by the way; and Hennessy tells me that he used to run with that dope case we had up last August. She’s livin’ in the Row, too. Let’s go over and have a look.” The Coroner cast an apprehensive glance at the forbidding structure across the way. “Can’t be so sure,” he cautioned. “Corpse might have been washed up. Tide’s on the flood.” “Well, I’m goin’ to have a look at those two women, anyway,” the plain-clothes man announced. “That place is alive with crooks. I’d like to get something on it that would justify closing it up as a public nuisance, and throwing the whole lot of ’em out in the street. One murder and a happy-dust riot already this summer; and here we are again.” Then turning to the policeman, he gave his orders. “Get the wagon and take the body in. Then you had better come right back. We might have some arrests. The Coroner and I’ll investigate while you’re gone.” He turned away toward the Row, assuming that he would be followed. “All right, Cap; what do you say?” he called. The Coroner shook his ponderous figure down into his clothes, turned with evident reluctance, and joined him. “All right,” he agreed. “But all I need is a couple of witnesses to identify the body at the inquest.” Across the street a small negro boy detached himself from the base of one of the gateposts and darted through the entrance. A moment later the white men strode into an absolutely empty square. Their heels made a sharp sound on the flags, and the walls threw a clear echo down upon them. A cur that had been left napping in the sun woke with a start, looked about in a bewildered fashion, gave a frightened yelp, and bolted through a doorway. It was all clearly not to the taste of the Coroner, and he cast an uneasy glance about him. “Where do we go?” he asked. “That’s the widow’s room over there, if she hasn’t moved. We’ll give it a look first,” said the detective. The door was off the latch, and, without knocking, he kicked it open and walked in. The room was small, but immaculately clean. Beneath a patched white quilt could be seen the form of a woman. Two other women were sitting in utter silence beside the bed. The form under the covers moaned.