“I had him conveyed into this room, sending messengers for a doctor, and to the High Street, Kensington, Police Station. I again attempted artificial respiration, and was so engaged when this gentleman arrived.” “That all?” “Yes, sir.” “Thanks. Now, sir,” turning to the doctor, “may I ask you just to state the facts within your knowledge?” “I was called at ten-thirty, about. I live in the High Street. My name’s Mason. I found deceased here upon the floor and the constable attempting artificial respiration. Life was extinct.” “How long had the man been dead?” “A very short time; possibly not more than half an hour, perhaps less.” “Cause of death?” “Strangulation. The man has been, in my opinion, garrotted, seized from behind by the throat and literally strangled. The thyroid cartilage has been broken, and there are the marks of fingers upon the skin of the neck.” “No other marks or wounds?” “I have found no other.” “Thanks. Constable, remove the sheet.” The officer stripped away the sheet, revealing a terrible spectacle. Upon the floor lay the body of a middle-aged man, judging from the scanty hair streaked with grey; the face was of a dull purple, the tongue and eyes were protruding. The body was well dressed in a frock coat and grey pepper and salt coloured trousers. “Had he been robbed?” asked the chief of the constable. “No sir; the watch and chain, valuable ones evidently, were intact, also the money in his pockets.” “Now,” said the chief, turning to the woman, “what do you know about it?” She told her tale in a broken voice. Deceased had lodged with her for some years. His name was Goldberg, a retired City man and well-to-do. Always of an evening he went out before retiring to rest, and took a short walk up and down the road, rarely being absent more than ten minutes. This evening he had gone out as usual. She was in the front bedroom upstairs, closing the window and about to pull down the blind, when she heard a stifled cry from the street, and looking out saw two men struggling on the pavement just before the garden gate. She could not tell in the least what the men were like, for the light was very indistinct. She ran downstairs. Her husband was out, and she had no one in the house with her. She put the hall door on the chain and, opening it as far as possible with the chain on, she peeped through the opening. She saw a dark form on the pavement beyond the garden gate. It did not move. There was no sound to be heard, and, plucking up courage after awhile, she opened the hall door and came down the garden path towards the gate. Mr Goldberg was lying on the pavement, “all of a heap.” She screamed, and a woman from over the way came across the road. The woman ran into the High Street for assistance, and a policeman came. The woman across the way had seen nothing of the two men or the struggle. “Had Mr Goldberg any enemies, to your knowledge?” “No, sir, he was the best and kindest of men.”