I was aroused from my reflections rather abruptly by a raucous voice in
my ear.

"'Orrible discovery at Sidcup!"

I turned wrathfully--for a London street-boy's yell, let off at
point-blank range, is, in effect, like the smack of an open hand--but
the inscription on the staring yellow poster that was held up for my
inspection changed my anger into curiosity.

"Horrible discovery in a watercress-bed!"

Now, let, prigs deny it if they will, but there is something very
attractive in a "horrible discovery." It hints at tragedy, at mystery,
at romance. It promises to bring into our grey and commonplace life that
element of the dramatic which is the salt that our existence is
savoured withal. "In a watercress-bed," too! The rusticity of the
background seemed to emphasise the horror of the discovery, whatever it
might be.

I bought a copy of the paper, and, tucking it under my arm, hurried on
to the surgery, promising myself a mental feast of watercress; but as I
opened the door I found myself confronted by a corpulent woman of
piebald and pimply aspect who saluted me with a deep groan. It was the
lady from the coal shop in Fleur-de-Lys Court.

"Good evening, Mrs. Jablett," I said briskly; "not come about yourself,
I hope."

"Yes, I have," she answered, rising and following me gloomily into the