At this moment there smote upon our ears a politely protesting voice announcing in sing-song tones that it was closing time; and simultaneously a desire for tea suggested the hospitable milk-shop.  With leisurely dignity that ignored the official who shepherded us along the galleries, we made our way to the entrance, still immersed in conversation on matters sepulchral.

It was rather earlier than our usual hour for leaving the Museum and, moreover, it was our last day—­for the present.  Wherefore we lingered over our tea to an extent that caused the milk-shop lady to view us with some disfavour, and when at length we started homeward, we took so many short cuts that six o’clock found us no nearer our destination than Lincoln’s Inn Fields; whither we had journeyed by a slightly indirect route that traversed (among other places) Russell Square, Red Lion Square, with the quaint passage of the same name, Bedford Row, Jockey’s Fields, Hand Court, and Great Turnstile.

It was in the latter thoroughfare that our attention was attracted by a flaming poster outside a newsvendor’s bearing the startling inscription: 

“MORE MEMENTOES OF MURDERED MAN.”

Miss Bellingham glanced at the poster and shuddered.

“Horrible!  Isn’t it?” she said.  “Have you read about them?”

“I haven’t been noticing the papers the last few, days,” I replied.

“No, of course you haven’t.  You’ve been slaving at those wretched notes.  We don’t very often see the papers, at least we don’t take them in, but Miss Oman has kept us supplied during the last day or two.  She is a perfect little ghoul; she delights in horrors of every kind, and the more horrible the better.”

“But,” I asked, “what is it that they have found?”

“Oh, they are the remains of some poor creature who seems to have been murdered and cut in pieces.  It is dreadful.  It made me shudder to read of it, for I couldn’t help thinking of poor Uncle John, and, as for my father, he was really quite upset.”

“Are these the bones that were found in a watercress-bed at Sidcup?”

“Yes.  But they have found several more.  The police have been most energetic.  They seem to have been making a systematic search, and the result has been that they have discovered several portions of the body, scattered about in very widely separated places—­Sidcup, Lee, St. Mary Cray; and yesterday it was reported that an arm had been found in one of the ponds called ‘the Cuckoo Pits,’ close to our old home.”

“What! in Essex?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, in Epping Forest, quite near Woodford.  Isn’t it dreadful to think of it?  They were probably hidden when we were living there.  I think it was that that horrified my father so much.  When he read it he was so upset that he gathered up the whole bundle of newspapers and tossed them out of the window; and they blew over the wall, and poor Miss Oman had to rush out and pursue them up the court.”