“It has a fanlight over the front door.” She remained impassive. “And two old-fashioned strips of parti-coloured glass on either side.” “And a knocker between its panels which may bring money some day.” “Oh, you do remember! I thought you would, Miss Strange.” “Yes. Fanlights over doors are becoming very rare in New York.” “Very well, then. That house was the scene of Tuesday’s tragedy. The woman who has lived there in solitude for years was foully murdered. I have since heard that the people who knew her best have always anticipated some such violent end for her. She never allowed maid or friend to remain with her after five in the afternoon; yet she had money--some think a great deal--always in the house.” “I am interested in the house, not in her.” “Yet, she was a character--as full of whims and crotchets as a nut is of meat. Her death was horrible. She fought--her dress was torn from her body in rags. This happened, you see, before her hour for retiring; some think as early as six in the afternoon. And”--here he made a rapid gesture to catch Violet’s wandering attention--“in spite of this struggle; in spite of the fact that she was dragged from room to room--that her person was searched--and everything in the house searched--that drawers were pulled out of bureaus--doors wrenched off of cupboards--china smashed upon the floor--whole shelves denuded and not a spot from cellar to garret left unransacked, no direct clue to the perpetrator has been found--nothing that gives any idea of his personality save his display of strength and great cupidity. The police have even deigned to consult me,--an unusual procedure--but I could find nothing, either. Evidences of fiendish purpose abound--of relentless search--but no clue to the man himself. It’s uncommon, isn’t it, not to have any clue?” “I suppose so.” Miss Strange hated murders and it was with difficulty she could be brought to discuss them. But she was not going to be let off; not this time. “You see,” he proceeded insistently, “it’s not only mortifying to the police but disappointing to the press, especially as few reporters believe in the No-thoroughfare business. They say, and we cannot but agree with them, that no such struggle could take place and no such repeated goings to and fro through the house without some vestige being left by which to connect this crime with its daring perpetrator.” Still she stared down at her hands--those little hands so white and fluttering, so seemingly helpless under the weight of their many rings, and yet so slyly capable. “She must have queer neighbours,” came at last, from Miss Strange’s reluctant lips. “Didn’t they hear or see anything of all this?”