“They are.”

“And your business sense in abeyance?”

“How so?”

“You would not ask if you had read the papers.”

To this she made no reply save by a slight toss of her pretty head.  If her employer felt nettled by this show of indifference, he did not betray it save by the rapidity of his tones as, without further preamble and possibly without real excuse, he proceeded to lay before her the case in question.  “Last Tuesday night a woman was murdered in this city; an old woman, in a lonely house where she has lived for years.  Perhaps you remember this house?  It occupies a not inconspicuous site in Seventeenth Street—­a house of the olden time?”

“No, I do not remember.”

The extreme carelessness of Miss Strange’s tone would have been fatal to her socially; but then, she would never have used it socially.  This they both knew, yet he smiled with his customary indulgence.

“Then I will describe it.”

She looked around for a chair and sank into it.  He did the same.

“It has a fanlight over the front door.”

She remained impassive.

“And two old-fashioned strips of parti-coloured glass on either side.”

“And a knocker between its panels which may bring money some day.”

“Oh, you do remember!  I thought you would, Miss Strange.”

“Yes.  Fanlights over doors are becoming very rare in New York.”

“Very well, then.  That house was the scene of Tuesday’s tragedy.  The woman who has lived there in solitude for years was foully murdered.  I have since heard that the people who knew her best have always anticipated some such violent end for her.  She never allowed maid or friend to remain with her after five in the afternoon; yet she had money—­some think a great deal—­always in the house.”

“I am interested in the house, not in her.”

“Yet, she was a character—­as full of whims and crotchets as a nut is of meat.  Her death was horrible.  She fought—­her dress was torn from her body in rags.  This happened, you see, before her hour for retiring; some think as early as six in the afternoon.  And”—­here he made a rapid gesture to catch Violet’s wandering attention—­“in spite of this struggle; in spite of the fact that she was dragged from room to room—­that her person was searched—­ and everything in the house searched—­that drawers were pulled out of bureaus—­doors wrenched off of cupboards—­china smashed upon the floor—­whole shelves denuded and not a spot from cellar to garret left unransacked, no direct clue to the perpetrator has been found—­nothing that gives any idea of his personality save his display of strength and great cupidity.  The police have even deigned to consult me,—­an unusual procedure—­but I could find nothing, either.  Evidences of fiendish purpose abound—­of relentless search—­but no clue to the man himself.  It’s uncommon, isn’t it, not to have any clue?”