they had to walk to Hammersmith before they picked up
a hansom. They dropped off one by one, and Jack was the only occupant
when he reached Sloane street. It was long past four when the cab put
him down at his lodgings on the Surrey side.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A THUNDERBOLT FROM THE BLUE.

Another day dawned, as wet and gloomy as the preceding ones. It was the
middle of the morning when Jack got out of bed, and as he dressed he
heard the penetrating voices of newsboys ringing through the Waterloo
Bridge road. He could not distinguish what they were saying, though
he judged that the papers must contain some intelligence of unusual
importance. He rang for his breakfast, and his landlady, Mrs. Jones,
appeared in person, bringing coffee, rolls and bacon on a tray. Her face
was flushed with excitement.

"Oh, Mr. Vernon, 'ave you 'eard?" she exclaimed. "There was a 'orrible
murder last night! I do pity the poor, dear creature--"

"I don't want to be shocked," Jack curtly interrupted. "Murders are
common enough. But you might send me up a paper."

"And you won't 'ear--"

"Not now, my good woman."

Mrs. Jones put down the tray, tossed her head, and departed in a huff.
The paper arrived five minutes later, and Jack glanced over it while he
sipped his coffee. One of the inside pages suddenly confronted him with
huge headlines: "The Beak Street Murder!" He read further down the
column, and his face turned as pale as ashes; he swayed in his chair.

"My God!" he cried. "It is Diane!"

The report of the affair was enlarged from a briefer account that had
appeared in a late edition on the previous night. It seemed that Mrs.
Rickett, the landlady and proprietress of 324 Beak street, had
discovered the crime at a quarter to ten in the evening. A red stain,
coming through the ceiling of her sitting-room, attracted her attention.
She went to the room overhead, which was occupied by a female lodger
calling herself Diane Merode. The door was locked, and her demands for
admittance brought no response. She promptly summoned the police, who
broke in the door and found the unfortunate woman, Merode, lying dead in
a pool of blood. She had been stabbed to the heart by a powerful blow
dealt from behind.

"The murderer left no traces," the _Globe_ continued. "He carried off
the weapon, and, after locking the door, he took the key. According to
medical opinion, the deed was committed about half-past eight o'clock.
At that time there