ughfare that our attention was attracted by a
flaring poster outside a newsvendor's bearing the startling inscription:

"MORE MEMENTOES
OF MURDERED MAN."

Miss Bellingham glanced at the poster and shuddered.

"Horrible, isn't it?" she said. "Have you read about them?"

"I haven't been noticing the papers the last few days," I replied.

"No, of course you haven't. You've been slaving at those wretched
notes. We don't very often see the papers, at least we don't take them
in, but Miss Oman has kept us supplied during the last day or two. She
is a perfect little ghoul; she delights in horrors of every kind, and
the more horrible the better."

"But," I asked, "what is it they have found?"

"Oh, they are the remains of some poor creature who seems to have been
murdered and cut into pieces. It is dreadful. It made me shudder to
read of it, for I couldn't help thinking of poor Uncle John, and, as
for my father, he was really quite upset."

"Are these the bones that were found in a watercress-bed at Sidcup?"

"Yes, but they have found several more. The police have been most
energetic. They seem to have been making a systematic search, and the
result has been that they have discovered several portions of the body,
scattered about in very widely separated places--Sidcup, Lee, St. Mary
Cray; and yesterday it was reported that an arm had been found in one
of the ponds called 'the Cuckoo Pits,' close to our old home."

"What! in Essex?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, in Epping Forest, quite near Woodford. Isn't it dreadful to
think of it? They were probably hidden when we were living there. I
think it was that that horrified my father so much. When he read it he
was so upset that he gathered up the whole bundle of newspapers and
tossed them out of the window; and they blew over the wall, and poor
Miss Oman had to rush and pursue them up the court."

"Do you think he suspects that these remains may be those of your
uncle?"

"I think so, though he has said nothing to that effect and, of course,
I have not made any suggestion to him. We always preserve the fiction
between ourselves of believing that Uncle John is still alive."

"But you don't think he is, do you?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't; and I feel pretty sure that my father doesn't
think so either, but he doesn't like to admit it to me."

"Do you happen to remember what bones have been found?"

"No, I don't. I know that an arm was found in the Cuckoo Pit