Heise was already inside the house.  He turned to Trina, panting from his run.

“Where did you say—­where was it—­where?”

“In there,” said Trina, “farther in—­the next room.”  They burst into the kitchen.

“Lord!” ejaculated Heise, stopping a yard or so from the body, and bending down to peer into the gray face with its brown lips.

“By God! he’s killed her.”

“Who?”

“Zerkow, by God! he’s killed her.  Cut her throat.  He always said he would.”

“Zerkow?”

“He’s killed her.  Her throat’s cut.  Good Lord, how she did bleed!  By God! he’s done for her in good shape this time.”

“Oh, I told her—­I told her,” cried Trina.

“He’s done for her sure this time.”

“She said she could always manage—­Oh-h!  It’s horrible.”

“He’s done for her sure this trip.  Cut her throat.  Lord, how she has bled!  Did you ever see so much—­that’s murder—­that’s cold-blooded murder.  He’s killed her.  Say, we must get a policeman.  Come on.”

They turned back through the house.  Half a dozen people—­the wild-game peddler, the man with the broad-brimmed hat, the washwoman, and three other men—­were in the front room of the junk shop, a bank of excited faces surged at the door.  Beyond this, outside, the crowd was packed solid from one end of the alley to the other.  Out in Polk Street the cable cars were nearly blocked and were bunting a way slowly through the throng with clanging bells.  Every window had its group.  And as Trina and the harness-maker tried to force the way from the door of the junk shop the throng suddenly parted right and left before the passage of two blue-coated policemen who clove a passage through the press, working their elbows energetically.  They were accompanied by a third man in citizen’s clothes.

Heise and Trina went back into the kitchen with the two policemen, the third man in citizen’s clothes cleared the intruders from the front room of the junk shop and kept the crowd back, his arm across the open door.

“Whew!” whistled one of the officers as they came out into the kitchen, “cutting scrape?  By George!  Somebody’s been using his knife all right.”  He turned to the other officer.  “Better get the wagon.  There’s a box on the second corner south.  Now, then,” he continued, turning to Trina and the harness-maker and taking out his note-book and pencil, “I want your names and addresses.”

It was a day of tremendous excitement for the entire street.  Long after the patrol wagon had driven away, the crowd remained.  In fact, until seven o’clock that evening groups collected about the door of the junk shop, where a policeman stood guard, asking all manner of questions, advancing all manner of opinions.

“Do you think they’ll get him?” asked Ryer of the policeman.  A dozen necks craned forward eagerly.

“Hoh, we’ll get him all right, easy enough,” answered the other, with a grand air.