A minute later he came back and said: “Stagers is in this business, and I was to remind you of Lou Wilson,--I forgot that,--the woman that died last year. That’s all.” Then he went away, leaving me in a cold sweat. I knew now I had no choice. I understood why I had been selected. For the first time in my life, that night I couldn’t sleep. I thought to myself, at last, that I would get up early, pack a few clothes, and escape, leaving my books to pay as they might my arrears of rent. Looking out of the window, however, in the morning, I saw Stagers prowling about the opposite pavement; and as the only exit except the street door was an alleyway which opened along-side of the front of the house, I gave myself up for lost. About ten o’clock I took my case of instruments and started for File’s house, followed, as I too well understood, by Stagers. I knew the house, which was in a small uptown street, by its closed windows and the craped bell, which I shuddered as I touched. However, it was too late to draw back, and I therefore inquired for Mrs. File. A haggard-looking young woman came down, and led me into a small parlor, for whose darkened light I was thankful enough. “Did you write this note?” “I did,” said the woman, “if you’re the coroner. Joe File--he’s my husband--he’s gone out to see about the funeral. I wish it was his, I do.” “What do you suspect?” said I. “I’ll tell you,” she returned in a whisper. “I think he was made away with. I think there was foul play. I think he was poisoned. That’s what I think.” “I hope you may be mistaken,” said I. “Suppose you let me see the body.” “You shall see it,” she replied; and following her, I went up-stairs to a front chamber, where I found the corpse. “Get it over soon,” said the woman, with strange firmness. “If there ain’t no murder been done I shall have to run for it; if there was”--and her face set hard--“I guess I’ll stay.” With this she closed the door and left me with the dead. If I had known what was before me I never could have gone into the thing at all. It looked a little better when I had opened a window and let in plenty of light; for although I was, on the whole, far less afraid of dead than living men, I had an absurd feeling that I was doing this dead man a distinct wrong--as if it mattered to the dead, after all! When the affair was over, I thought more of the possible consequences than of its relation to the dead man himself; but do as I would at the time, I was in a ridiculous funk, and especially when going through the forms of a post-mortem examination. I am free to confess now that I was careful not to uncover the man’s face, and that when it was over I backed to the door and hastily escaped from the room. On the stairs opposite to me Mrs. File was seated, with her bonnet on and a bundle in her hand. “Well,” said she, rising as she spoke, and with a certain eagerness in her tone, “what killed him? Was it poison?”