Then followed a few days in a big hotel. He paid a round of useless calls at the offices of magazines that, to his certain knowledge, printed all sorts of rubbishy articles about cow-boy life, but opposed a phalanx of commissionaires against a man who could not only round up an infuriated herd, but could also describe the feat deftly with a pen. Ultimately, he resolved to lay siege to the citadel which he was unable to storm, and pitch his camp over against the tents of the enemy. He took a furnished flat, "with plate and linen, gas-stove, electric light, bath H. and C.," for six months. In thus becoming a Londoner, he encountered the first quaint anomaly of London life. When he drove up to the door of the most fashionable hotel in the West End, and deposited a couple of portmanteaus in a bed-room after signing the register, he was permitted to run a bill for a week, at least, without let or hindrance; but when he offered to pay cash in advance for the flat, he met with a demand for "references." The agent was firm but explanatory. "It is not my client, but the over-landlord, who makes that stipulation," he said. "In fact, the letting is wholly in my hands, as the late tenant is dead; but, for certain reasons, the residuary legatees wish to keep the place in its present condition until the lease expires a year hence." "Did the late tenant die there?" asked David. "Well--yes--fully five months since; there have been other occupants subsequently, and the terms are so reasonable--" "What did he, or she, die of?" persisted David. He was accustomed to reading men's faces, and he had caught a certain fluttering of the agent's eyelids. "Nothing to cause any alarm, nothing infectious, I assure you. People--er--die in flats just the same as--er--in private houses." This, being a joke, had its chuckle. But the agent also knew men in his own way, and he felt it was unwise to wriggle. David had a steadfast glance. He gave others the impression that he heard and treasured each word they uttered. He was really wondering then why the speaker's neck was so long and thin--nothing more serious, but, with a disagreeable disclosure lurking in the other's mind, David's scrutiny compelled candor. "The thing is bound to come to your ears sooner or later, Mr. Harcourt; so I may as well tell you now," said the Londoner. "The late tenant was a lady, a singer of much promise, it was said. For an unknown reason--probably some love affair was disturbing her rest--she--er--took an overdose of a sleeping-draft. She was a very charming woman, quite young, of highest character. It is inconceivable that she should have committed suicide. The affair was an accident, of course, but--er--" "A sceptical coroner thought it a murder?"