"Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. Once he chuckled aloud. You are a detective?" "Yes. For a time I must do journalism and work hard. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. He had been very easy or she had been very lucky. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out.
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