"A most inviting room, Mrs. Marry," said the Rector, perching himself carefully on a fragile chair, all varnish and design, but entirely wanting in solidity; "but Mr. Brown----" "Ah, sir, he's gone where we must all go;" and Mrs. Marry wiped away an imaginary tear. But her remark called forth a question from Blair, who had been making a close examination of the room: "How do you know he is dead?" "Bless the man! wouldn't he be back if he wasn't? I'm sure he was comfortable enough, and my cooking is above blame, thank Heaven! If any one----" "Mr. Brown went out at nine o'clock?" said Blair, cutting her short. "I won't deceive you, Mr. Policeman, he did. He stayed in most of the day, and went out in the afternoon. At six he came back for his bit and sup, and at nine he went out again to take the air. He said so, at least, and I ain't set eyes on him since." "He said so?" remarked Mr. Phelps. "On his fingers, of course. He was dumb, sir, but not deaf, and he conversed on his fingers wonderful. I can talk myself that way," said Mrs. Marry gravely, "having a niece as is deaf and dumb in an asylum. I expect it was my knowing the language as brought Mr. Brown here to lodge." "Where did he come from?" "London town, he gave me to understand, sir. But he didn't talk much--on his fingers--about himself. He was very quiet, ate and drank, read books----" "What kind of books?" "Novels, sir--yellow novels, in a foreign tongue. Here, sir, is the rosewood bookcase. He also wrote a great deal, but what I don't know. I thought he had ideas of becoming a writing person himself." Blair opened the bookcase, and one by one examined a dozen or so of French novels ranged on the lower shelf. They were all by good authors, the usual paper-covered cheap editions--nothing strange about them. No name was written in any one of them. He shut up the bookcase with a look of disappointment. "Was your lodger a Frenchman?" he asked. "Lor', sir, I dunno! He talked English with his fingers. I've seen him reading the newspapers." "He did not look like a foreigner," remarked the Rector. "Ah! I quite forgot you knew the man, Mr. Phelps. Can you describe his looks?" "He was not very tall, had long white hair and a beard, ruddy cheeks, and dark eyes. He was usually dressed in a gray suit, and walked with a stout stick." "Gout in his feet," put in Mrs. Marry, not at all pleased at being left out in the cold. "He wore cloth boots for his gout--walked very badly, did Mr. Brown." "Strange!" murmured Blair, again looking round the room. "How could an old man helpless through gout in the feet carry off a dead body? Humph!" "He carried off no dead body!" cried Mrs. Marry, crimson with wrath, "if it's Mr. Marlow's corpse you're talking of. I believe Mr. Brown's bin murdered like the doctor." "Why do you believe so?" "Because I've made up my mind to believe it," said Mrs. Marry fiercely. "And I'd like to see the man as would change my mind."