A murder lends to the locality in which it is perpetrated, a certain left-handed fame which those of its inhabitants who appear most disgusted, most enjoy. Human nature being what it is, trouble and misery have a larger sale value to newspapers, than have comfort and happiness. Nothing makes a newspaper reader more conscious of the emptiness of his journal, than to learn that his insignificant neighbour has unexpectedly inherited a fortune. Therefore, it is only natural that when the average man or woman finds himself or herself promoted from mere observer to participant, however indirect, he or she experiences a queer satisfaction that is no less satisfying because it is queer. The woman of the house may shudder and make unusual efforts to “keep it from the children” but she listens avidly to the cook’s inside story of the crime that was committed next door, and presses for further details. The man may express his horror and indignation and talk of leaving his house and finding another in a less notorious neighbourhood, but for years he will point out to his visitors and guests the window of the room where the fell deed was done. Opposite to Mayfield was the home of John Ferguson Stott, who, in addition to being a neighbour of the late Jesse Trasmere, was the employer of his nephew. This gave him an especial title to speak as an Authority. It supported him also in his determination to Say Nothing. “It is bad enough, my dear, to be living in the street where this ghastly crime has been committed. I cannot afford to be dragged into the matter.” He was a small, fat man, very bald, and he wore spectacles of great magnifying power. “Eline says--” began his buxom wife. Mr. Stott held up a podgy hand and closed his eyes. “Servants’ gossip!” said he. “Let us keep out of this business. I cannot afford to have my name in the papers. Why, we should have the house full of reporters in no time! And the police, too. I had quite trouble enough over the dog’s license, ever to want to see the police again.” He sat soberly in his place before the window, glaring out at the darkening street. A light flitted to and fro in one of the upper windows of Mayfield, came and went, and came again. The police were searching. He was interested. Tomorrow, when he met the men at Toby’s, he would be able to say: “They are still searching old Trasmere’s house. I saw them last night--the house is just opposite to mine.” Presently the light disappeared for good and he turned to his wife. “What did Eline say? Ring for her.” Eline was a parlour-maid, grown of a sudden from the merest cipher in the great sum of parlour-maids, to an isolated and important factor. “I’m sure it gives me the shivers to talk about it, sir,” she said. “Little did I ever think I should be mixed up in a case like this. I’m sure that I’d die if I was ever called into court to give evidence.”