which he lived was his, and he lived in
it because several other houses in the street were also his, and it is
well for the landlord to be about his own estate in Bow, where poachers
often shoot the moon. Perhaps the desire to enjoy his greatness among
his early cronies counted for something, too, for he had been born and
bred at Bow, receiving when a youth his first engagement from the local
police quarters, whence he drew a few shillings a week as an amateur
detective in his leisure hours.

Grodman was still a bachelor. In the celestial matrimonial bureau a
partner might have been selected for him, but he had never been able to
discover her. It was his one failure as a detective. He was a
self-sufficing person, who preferred a gas stove to a domestic; but in
deference to Glover Street opinion he admitted a female factotum between
ten a. m. and ten p. m., and, equally in deference to Glover Street
opinion, excluded her between ten p. m. and ten a. m.

"I want you to come across at once," Mrs. Drabdump gasped. "Something
has happened to Mr. Constant."

"What! Not bludgeoned by the police at the meeting this morning, I
hope?"

"No, no! He didn't go. He is dead."

"Dead?" Grodman's face grew very serious now.

"Yes. Murdered!"

"What?" almost shouted the ex-detective. "How? When? Where? Who?"

"I don't know. I can't get to him. I have beaten at his door. He does
not answer."

Grodman's face lit up with relief.

"You silly woman! Is that all? I shall have a cold in my head. Bitter
weather. He's dog-tired after yesterday--processions, three speeches,
kindergarten, lecture on 'the moon,' article on co-operation. That's his
style." It was also Grodman's style. He never wasted words.

"No," Mrs. Drabdump breathed up at him solemnly, "he's dead."

"All right; go back. Don't alarm the neighborhood unnecessarily. Wait
for me. Down in five minutes." Grodman did not take this Cassandra of
the kitchen too seriously. Probably he knew his woman. His small,
bead-like eyes glittered with an almost amused smile as he withdrew them
from Mrs. Drabdump's ken, and shut down the sash with a bang. The poor
woman ran back across the road and through her door, which she would not
close behind her. It seemed to shut her in with the dead. She waited in
the passage. After an age--seven minutes by any honest clock--Grodman
made his appearance, looking as dressed as usual, but with unkempt hair
and with disconsolate side-whisker. He w