There was only one sound which broke the intense stillness of the
jewelry shop on that fateful April morning. That sound was the ticking
of the watch in the hand of the dead woman.

Outside, the rain was falling. Not a heavy downpour which splashed
cheerfully on umbrellas and formed swollen streams in the gutters,
whence they rushed toward the sewer basins, carrying with them an
accumulation of sticks, leaves and dirt. Not a windy, gusty rain, that
made a man glad to get indoors near a genial fire, with his pipe and a
book.

It was a drizzle; a steady, persistent drizzle, which a half-hearted
wind blew this way and that, as though neither element cared much for
the task in hand--that of thoroughly soaking the particular part of the
universe in the neighborhood of Colchester and taking its own time in
which to do it.

Early in the unequal contest the sun had given up its effort to pierce
through the leaden clouds, and had taken its beams to other places--to
busy cities, to smiling country villages and farms. Above, around,
below, on all sides, soaking through and through, drizzling it, soaking
it, sprinkling it, half-hiding it in fog and mist, the rain enveloped
Colchester--a sodden, damp garment.

Early paper boys slunk along the slippery streets, trying to protect
their limp wares from becoming mere blotters. The gongs of the few
trolley cars that were sent out to take the early toilers to their
tasks rang as though covered with a blanket of fog. The thud of the
feet of the milkmen's horses was muffled, and the rattle of bottles
seemed to come from afar off, as though over some misty lake.