lives of the police.  But beyond these there was another reason for my interest.  The murder of my wife had been a purposeless, unnecessary crime, committed by some wretch to whom human life was a thing of no consideration.  There was an analogy in the circumstances that seemed to connect that murder with this type of miscreant.  It was even possible that one of these very villains might be the one whom I had so patiently sought through the long and weary years.

“The thought fired me with a new enthusiasm.  Forthwith I started to pursue the possible course of the fugitives, threading countless by-streets and alleys, peering into squalid courts and sending many a doubtful-looking loiterer shuffling hastily round the nearest corner.  Of course it was fruitless.  I had no clue and did not even know the men.  I was merely walking off my own excitement.

“Nevertheless, every night as soon as I had closed my shop, I set forth on a voyage of exploration, impelled by sheer restlessness; and during the day I listened eagerly to the talk of my customers in Yiddish—­a language of which I was supposed to be entirely ignorant.  But I learned nothing.  Either the fugitives were unknown, or the natural secretiveness of an alien people forbade any reference to them, even among themselves; and meanwhile, as I have said, I tramped the streets nightly into the small hours of the morning.

“Returning from one of these expeditions a little earlier than usual, I found a small party of policemen and a sprinkling of idlers gathered opposite the house next door.  There was no need to ask what was doing.  The suppressed excitement of the officers and the service revolvers in their belts told the story.  There was going to be another slaughter; and I was probably too late for any but a spectator’s part.

“The street door was open and the house was being quietly emptied of its human occupants.  They came out one by one, shivering and complaining, with little bundles of their possessions hastily snatched up, and collected in a miserable group on the pavement.  I opened my shop door and invited them to come in and rest while their messengers went to look for a harbor of refuge; but I stayed outside to see the upshot of the proceedings.

“When the last of the tenants had come out, a sergeant emerged and quietly closed the street door with a latch-key.  The rest of the policemen took up sheltered positions in doorways after warning the idlers to disperse and the sergeant turned to me.

“’Now, Mr. Vosper, you’d better keep your nose indoors if you don’t want it shot off.  There’s going to be trouble presently.’  He pushed me gently into the shop and shut the door after me.

“I found the evicted tenants chattering excitedly and very unhappy.  But they were not rebellious.  They were mostly Jews, and Jews are a patient, submissive people.  I boiled some water in my little copper and made some coffee, which they drank gratefully—­out of shaving mugs; my outfit of crockery being otherwise rather limited.  And meanwhile they talked volubly and I listened.