must have waked up and clutched
the murderess's hair--though there doesn't seem to have been much of a
struggle; but no doubt she died almost at once. Then the murderess
washed her hands, cleaned the knife, tidied up the bed a bit, and went
away. That's about how things happened, I think, but how she got in
without anyone hearing, and how she got out, and where she went to, are
the things that we've got to find out."

"Perhaps," said the surgeon, drawing the bedclothes over the corpse, "we
had better have the landlady in and make a few inquiries." He glanced
significantly at Thorndyke, and the inspector coughed behind his hand.
My colleague, however, chose to be obtuse to these hints: opening the
door, he turned the key backwards and forwards several times, drew it
out, examined it narrowly, and replaced it.

"The landlady is outside on the landing," he remarked, holding the door
open.

Thereupon the inspector went out, and we all followed to hear the result
of his inquiries.

"Now, Mrs. Goldstein," said the officer, opening his notebook, "I want
you to tell us all that you know about this affair, and about the girl
herself. What was her name?"

The landlady, who had been joined by a white-faced, tremulous man, wiped
her eyes, and replied in a shaky voice: "Her name, poor child, was Minna
Adler. She was a German. She came from Bremen about two years ago. She
had no friends in England--no relatives, I mean. She was a waitress at a
restaurant in Fenchurch Street, and a good, quiet, hard-working girl."

"When did you discover what had happened?"

"About eleven o'clock. I thought she had gone to work as usual, but my
husband noticed from the back yard that her blind was still down. So I
went up and knocked, and when I got no answer, I opened the door and
went in, and then I saw--" Here the poor soul, overcome by the dreadful
recollection, burst into hysterical sobs.

"Her door was unlocked, then; did she usually lock it?"

"I think so," sobbed Mrs. Goldstein. "The key was always inside."

"And the street door; was that secure when you came down this morning?"

"It was shut. We don't bolt it because some of the lodgers come home
rather late."

"And now tell us, had she any enemies? Was there anyone who had a grudge
against her?"

"No, no, poor child! Why should anyone have a grudge against her? No,
she had no quarrel--no real quarrel--with anyone; not even with Miriam."

"Miriam!" inquired the inspector. "Wh