People may read about crimes in newspapers all their lives, and yet never properly realize that crime exists. To appreciate what crime is, one must be brought to close quarters with crime, as Carpentaria was. Twelve hours ago murder to him had been nothing but a name. Now he knew the horror that murder inspires. And with the corpse of the cat Beppo lying at his feet, he felt that horror far more keenly even than in the night as he unearthed the corpse of the mysterious drunken man. He had actually seen the cat done to death, and had it not been for the greediness of Beppo, he himself would have lain there, stretched out in eternal quiet. He looked at the half-empty bowl of milk and at the splashes of milk on the round painted table, reflecting that each splash was no doubt sufficient to kill a man. He wondered what he must do, how he must begin to disentangle himself from the coil of danger that was surrounding him. He was not afraid. He was probably much too excited to be afraid. He was angry, startled, grieved, and puzzled, and nothing more. His mind turned naturally to Juliette--Juliette, his comforter and companion. He did not like the idea of frightening her by a recital of what had occurred, but he knew that he would be compelled to do so. He must talk confidentially to some one who understood him and admired him. Now, at that hour in the morning the faithful Juliette, her dress ornamented by an extremely small and attractive French apron, was in the habit of personally dusting the writing-table in Carpentaria’s study adjoining the bedroom. No profane hand ever touched that table, and Juliette’s own hand never ventured to arrange its sublime disorder. There were three servants in the house--the parlourmaid, the cook, and a scullery-maid. There might have been a dozen had Juliette so wished. But Juliette was a simple person; her father, the second husband of Carpentaria’s mother, had belonged to the plain and excellent French bourgeoisie, who know so well how to cook and how to save money, and Juliette had inherited his tastes. Juliette was always curbing Carpentaria’s instinct towards magnificence. She did not want even three servants, and there were a number of delicate tasks, such as the dusting of Carpentaria’s table, that she would not permit them to do. Carpentaria touched nothing on the balcony. He went into the bedroom, fastened the window, and then hesitated. He could hear Juliette’s soft movements in the study. Ought he, could he, go to her and say bluntly: “Juliette, some one is trying to murder me, and you must take more care than you took this morning--you allowed my milk to be poisoned”? At last he opened the door of the study. But it was not Juliette dusting the sacred table. It was Jenkins, the parlourmaid! Such a thing had never before happened in the united domesticity of Carpentaria and Juliette! It was astounding. It unnerved Carpentaria. He locked the door of the bedroom, and put the key in his pocket.