was at his work yesterday, and sober enough."

"His brain may have given way, then; it was never very strong. But these
continual ravings about murder or suicide are dangerous; they will
develop into homicidal mania, most likely; and if he cannot get at his
enemy Michaieloff he may do a mischief to somebody else."

"I hope he has not done a mischief to himself already," said Edwards,
who had had more opportunities than his companion of studying the
workings of Kirski's disordered brain.

They reached the house and knocked at the door. The landlady made her
appearance.

"Is Kirski in the house?" Edwards asked, eagerly.

"No, he ain't," she said, with but scant courtesy.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed, in great relief. "You are sure? He went out
to his work as usual?"

"How should I know?" said the woman, who was evidently not on good terms
with her lodger.

"He had his breakfast as usual?"

"His breakfast!" she said scornfully. "No, he hadn't. He may pick up his
breakfast about the streets, like a cat; but he don't have any 'ere. And
a cat he is, sneaking up and down the stairs: how do I know whether he
is in the house or whether he ain't?"

At this Edwards turned pale again with a sudden fear. Brand interposed.

"You don't know? Then show us his room; we will see for ourselves."

He passed the woman, leaving her to shut the door, and went into the
small dark passage, waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. Grumbling
to herself, she came along to show them the way. It did not pay her to
waste her time like this, she said, for a lodger who took no food in the
house, and spent his earnings in the gin-shop. She should not be
surprised if they were to find him asleep at that time of the day. He
had ways like a cat.

The landing they reached was as dark as the staircase; so that when she
turned a handle and flung a door open there was a sudden glare of light.
At the same moment she uttered a shrill scream, and retreated backward.
She had caught a glimpse of some horrible thing--she hardly knew what.
It was the body of the man Kirski lying prone upon the uncarpeted floor,
his hands clinched. There was a dark pool of blood beside him.

Edwards sunk shuddering into a chair, sick and faint. He could neither
move nor speak; he dared hardly look at the object lying there in the
wan light. But Brand went quickly forward, and took hold of one of these
clinched hands. It was quite cold. He tried to turn over the body,