MORTLAKE:  Nothing.

CORONER:  What time did you leave the house on Tuesday morning?

MORTLAKE:  At about five-and-twenty minutes past four.

CORONER:  Are you sure that you shut the street door?

MORTLAKE:  Quite sure.  Knowing my landlady was rather a timid person, I even slipped the bolt of the big lock, which was usually tied back.  It was impossible for any one to get in, even with a latch-key.

Mrs. Drabdump’s evidence (which, of course, preceded his) was more important, and occupied a considerable time, unduly eked out by Drabdumpian padding.  Thus she not only deposed that Mr. Constant had the toothache, but that it was going to last about a week; in tragi-comic indifference to the radical cure that had been effected.  Her account of the last hours of the deceased tallied with Mortlake’s, only that she feared Mortlake was quarrelling with him over something in the letter that came by the nine o’clock post.  Deceased had left the house a little after Mortlake, but had returned before him, and had gone straight to his bedroom.  She had not actually seen him come in, having been in the kitchen, but she heard his latch-key, followed by his light step up the stairs.

A JURYMAN:  How do you know it was not somebody else? (Sensation, of which the juryman tries to look unconscious.)

WITNESS:  He called down to me over the banisters, and says in his sweetish voice, “Be hextra sure to wake me at a quarter to seven, Mrs. Drabdump, or else I shan’t get to my tram meeting.” (Juryman collapses.)

CORONER:  And did you wake him?

MRS. DRABDUMP (breaking down):  Oh, my lud, how can you ask?

CORONER:  There, there, compose yourself.  I mean did you try to wake him?

MRS. DRABDUMP:  I have taken in and done for lodgers this seventeen years, my lud, and have always gave satisfaction; and Mr. Mortlake, he wouldn’t ha’ recommended me otherwise, though I wish to Heaven the poor gentleman had never—­

CORONER:  Yes, yes, of course.  You tried to rouse him?

But it was some time before Mrs. Drabdump was sufficiently calm to explain that, though she had overslept herself, and though it would have been all the same anyhow, she had come up to time.  Bit by bit the tragic story was forced from her lips—­a tragedy that even her telling could not make tawdry.  She told with superfluous detail how—­when Mr. Grodman broke in the door—­she saw her unhappy gentleman-lodger lying on his back in bed, stone dead, with a gaping red wound in his throat; how her stronger-minded companion calmed her a little by spreading a handkerchief over the distorted face; how they then looked vainly about and under the bed for any instrument by which the deed could have been done, the veteran detective carefully making a rapid inventory of the contents of the room, and taking notes of the precise position and condition of the