“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.  “Who is she?”

“That was nothing,” interposed the man hastily.  “That was not a quarrel.”

“Just a little unpleasantness, I suppose, Mr. Goldstein?” suggested the inspector.

“Just a little foolishness about a young man,” said Mr. Goldstein.  “That was all.  Miriam was a little jealous.  But it was nothing.”

“No, no.  Of course.  We all know that young women are apt to—­”

A soft footstep had been for some time audible, slowly descending the stair above, and at this moment a turn of the staircase brought the newcomer into view.  And at that vision the inspector stopped short as if petrified, and a tense, startled silence fell upon us all.  Down the remaining stairs there advanced towards us a young woman, powerful though short, wild-eyed, dishevelled, horror-stricken, and of a ghastly pallor:  and her hair was a fiery red.

Stock still and speechless we all stood as this apparition came slowly towards us; but suddenly the detective slipped back into the room, closing the door after him, to reappear a few moments later holding a small paper packet, which, after a quick glance at the inspector, he placed in his breast pocket.

“This is my daughter Miriam that we spoke about, gentlemen,” said Mr. Goldstein.  “Miriam, those are the doctors and the police.”