system, and remained for some months in an imbecile condition.  Gradually, as we have informed our readers from time to time, Miss Callingham’s intellect has become stronger and stronger; and though she is still totally unable to remember spontaneously any events that occurred before her father’s death, it is hoped it may be possible, by describing vividly certain trains of previous incidents, to recall them in some small degree to her imperfect memory.  Dr. Thornton, of Welbeck Street, who has visited her from time to time on behalf of the Treasury, in conjunction with Dr. Wade, her own medical attendant, went down to Barton-on-the-Sea on Monday, and once more examined Miss Callingham’s intellect.  Though the Doctor is judiciously reticent as to the result of his visit, it is generally believed at Barton that he thinks the young lady sufficiently recovered to undergo a regular interrogatory; and in spite of the fact that Dr. Wade is opposed to any such proceeding at present, as prejudicial to the lady’s health, it is not unlikely that the Treasury may act upon their own medical official’s opinion, and send down an Inspector from Scotland Yard to make inquiries direct on the subject from Miss Callingham in person.”

My head swam round.  It was all like a dream to me.  I held my forehead with my hands, and gazed blankly at the Inspector.

“You understand what all this means?” he said interrogatively, leaning forward as he spoke.  “You remember the murder?”

“Perfectly,” I answered him, trembling all over.  “I remember every detail of it.  I could describe you exactly all the objects in the room.  The Picture it left behind has burned itself into my brain like a flash of lightning!”

The Inspector drew his chair nearer.  “Now, Miss Callingham,” he said in a very serious voice, “that’s a remarkable expression—­like a flash of lightning.’  Bear in mind, this is a matter of life and death to somebody somewhere.  Somebody’s neck may depend upon your answers.  Will you tell me exactly how much you remember?”

I told him in a few words precisely how the scene had imprinted itself on my memory.  I recalled the room, the box, the green wires, the carpet; the man who lay dead in his blood on the floor; the man who stood poised ready to leap from the window.  He let me go on unchecked till I’d finished everything I had to say spontaneously.  Then he took a photograph from his pocket, which he didn’t show me.  Looking at it attentively, he asked me questions, one by one, about the different things in the room at the time in very minute detail:  Where exactly was the box?  How did it stand relatively to the unlighted lamp?  What was the position of the pistol on the floor?  In which direction was my father’s head lying?  Though it brought back the Horror to me in a fuller and more terrible form than ever, I answered all his questions to the very best of my ability.  I could picture the whole scene like a photograph to myself; and I didn’t doubt the object he held in his hand was a photograph of the room as it appeared after the murder.  He checked my statements, one by one as I went on, by reference to the photograph, murmuring half to himself now and again:  “Yes, yes, exactly so”; “That’s right”; “That was so,” at each item I mentioned.