There was a considerable interval before he answered me--an interval during which he continued to glare, and I to fumble with my papers. When he did speak, it was in one of those portentous and assumed bass voices, which one inevitably connects with the proverbial "Villain at the Vic." "I have not called for my handkerchief." "Then, may I ask to what I am indebted for the pleasure of your presence here. I have only just come in, and I have some rather pressing business which I must do." "Your business has nothing to do with me." "Probably not; but it has with me." He came a step nearer, still keeping his arms crossed upon his chest. This time he spoke in a sort of a hiss. It seemed obvious that at some period of his career he must have had something to do with the stage. "Do you not know what has brought me here. Does your own conscience not tell you, man?" I began to suspect that he had been drinking. I looked up at him. He was eyeing me with a scowl which, to say the least of it, was scarcely civil. "How should I know what has brought you here, if it is not a desire to regain possession of your property? I take it that you hardly intend to suggest a further deposit." I do not think that he altogether relished the allusion. His scowl became less theatrical, and a good deal more natural. He seemed, for a moment, to be at a loss as to what to say. Then a word came from between his lips which startled me. "Murderer!" That was rather more than I could stand. I sprang to my feet. "What do you mean, sir, by addressing me like that? Are you mad?" My assumption of indignation did not seem to impress him in the least. He returned to the basso profundo. "Have you seen the evening papers?" At the question something began to swim before my eyes. I had to lean against the edge of the table. "No; what is there in the evening papers to interest me?" "I will show you." He began to unfold a paper which he took from his pocket. Laying the open sheet before me on the table, he pointed to a column of leaded type. "Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest that, if you can." The heading of the column was enough for me. It was headed, "Tragedy on the Brighton Line." I could read no farther. I dropped down into my chair again. The stranger continued to regard me with accusatory eyes. "What's the matter with you? You don't seem well." "I've not been feeling well all day." "So I should imagine. Else you had been more or less than human. Since you are not able to read the paper yourself, at which I am not surprised, I will read it for you. The paper says that the body of a woman has been found on the up side of the Brighton line, just before Three Bridges Station." "Dead?" "Dead--murdered."