"No, sir; I did not. After I got me water, I set down on the top step
to get me breath. When I saw the door stan'nin' open, thinks I to
meself, thinks I; 'Mr. Hume is up early this mornin'.' But everything
was quiet as the grave," in a hushed dramatic tone. "Sorra the sound
did I hear. So I gets up and goes in. And in the front room I sees him
lyin'. Mr. Hume was never a handsome man, sir; and he'd gained nothing
in looks by the end he'd met with. God save us, how I ever got out
into the street, I'll never know."

She rocked to and fro and fanned herself with her apron.

"It must have been a very severe shock, Mrs. Dwyer," agreed the
coroner. "Now," after a pause, "do you know anything--however slight,
mind you--that would seem to point to who did this thing?"

Mrs. Dwyer shook her head.

"Me acquaintance with Mr. Hume was a business one only, sir," she
said. "I never set foot into his place further than the hall except on
the days when I went to get me pay--and this morning, save us from
harm!"

"You know nothing of his friends then--of his habits?"

"There is the Jew boy, outside there, that worked for him. He's a
nice, good mannered little felly, and is the only person I ever see
in the office when I went there, barrin' the boss himself. As for Mr.
Hume's habits, I can say only what everybody knows. He were drunk when
he engaged me, and he were drunk the last time I seen him alive."