“Oh, no,” answered Tom, quickly.  “You remember he went out after me; at least, so Mrs. Drabdump said at the inquest.”

“That last conversation he had with you, Tom,” said Denzil.  “He didn’t say anything to you that would lead you to suppose—­”

“No, of course not!” interrupted Mortlake, impatiently.

“Do you really think he was murdered, Tom?” said Denzil.

“Mr. Wimp’s opinion on that point is more valuable than mine,” replied Tom, testily.  “It may have been suicide.  Men often get sick of life—­especially if they are bored,” he added meaningly.

“Ah, but you were the last person known to be with him,” said Denzil.

Crowl laughed.  “Had you there, Tom.”

But they did not have Tom there much longer, for he departed, looking even worse-tempered than when he came.  Wimp went soon after, and Crowl and Denzil were left to their interminable argumentation concerning the Useful and the Beautiful.

Wimp went West.  He had several strings (or cords) to his bow, and he ultimately found himself at Kensal Green Cemetery.  Being there, he went down the avenues of the dead to a grave to note down the exact date of a death.  It was a day on which the dead seemed enviable.  The dull, sodden sky, the dripping, leafless trees, the wet, spongy soil, the reeking grass—­everything combined to make one long to be in a warm, comfortable grave away from the leaden ennuis of life.  Suddenly the detective’s keen eye caught sight of a figure that made his heart throb with sudden excitement.  It was that of a woman in a grey shawl and a brown bonnet, standing before a railed-in grave.  She had no umbrella.  The rain plashed mournfully upon her, but left no trace on her soaking garments.  Wimp crept up behind her, but she paid no heed to him.  Her eyes were lowered to the grave, which seemed to be drawing them towards it by some strange morbid fascination.  His eyes followed hers.  The simple headstone bore the name, “Arthur Constant.”

Wimp tapped her suddenly on the shoulder.

“How do you do, Mrs. Drabdump?”

Mrs. Drabdump went deadly white.  She turned round, staring at Wimp without any recognition.

“You remember me, surely,” he said; “I’ve been down once or twice to your place about that poor gentleman’s papers.”  His eye indicated the grave.

“Lor!  I remember you now,” said Mrs. Drabdump.

“Won’t you come under my umbrella?  You must be drenched to the skin.”

“It don’t matter, sir.  I can’t take no hurt.  I’ve had the rheumatics this twenty year.”

Mrs. Drabdump shrank from accepting Wimp’s attentions, not so much perhaps because he was a man as because he was a gentleman.  Mrs. Drabdump liked to see the fine folks keep their place, and not contaminate their skirts by contact with the lower castes.  “It’s set wet, it’ll rain right into the new year,” she announced.  “And they say a bad beginnin’ makes a worse endin’.”  Mrs. Drabdump was one of those persons who give you the idea that they just missed being born barometers.