n the swinging-door was violently pushed open.
A frantic woman ran in with a scream, and said: "Is this the
station-house?"

Our Inspector (otherwise an excellent officer) had, by some perversity
of nature, a hot temper in his chilly constitution. "Why, bless the
woman, can't you see it is?" he says. "What's the matter now?"

"Murder's the matter!" she burst out. "For God's sake, come back with
me. It's at Mrs. Crosscapel's lodging-house, number 14 Lehigh Street.
A young woman has murdered her husband in the night! With a knife, sir.
She says she thinks she did it in her sleep."

I confess I was startled by this; and the third man on duty (a sergeant)
seemed to feel it too. She was a nice-looking young woman, even in
her terrified condition, just out of bed, with her clothes huddled on
anyhow. I was partial in those days to a tall figure--and she was, as
they say, my style. I put a chair for her; and the sergeant poked the
fire. As for the Inspector, nothing ever upset _him_. He questioned her
as coolly as if it had been a case of petty larceny.

"Have you seen the murdered man?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Or the wife?"

"No, sir. I didn't dare go into the room; I only heard about it!"

"Oh? And who are You? One of the lodgers?"

"No, sir. I'm the cook."

"Isn't there a master in the house?"

"Yes, sir. He's frightened out of his wits. And the housemaid's gone for
the doctor. It all falls on the poor servants, of course. Oh, why did I
ever set foot in that horrible house?"

The poor soul burst out crying, and shivered from head to foot. The
Inspector made a note of her statement, and then asked her to read it,
and sign it with her name. The object of this proceeding was to get her
to come near enough to give him the opportunity of smelling her breath.
"When people make extraordinary statements," he afterward said to me,
"it sometimes saves trouble to satisfy yourself that they are not drunk.
I've known them to be mad--but not often. You will generally find _that_
in their eyes."

She roused herself and signed her name--"Priscilla Thurlby." The
Inspector's own test proved her to be sober; and her eyes--a nice light
blue color, mild and pleasant, no doubt, when they were not staring with
fear, and red with crying--satisfied him (as I supposed) that she was
not mad. He turned the case over to me, in the first instance. I saw
that he didn't believe in it, even yet.

"Go back with her to the house," he says. "