which a way was made for him to the front door.

But before he could enter, some one plucked him by the sleeve.

"Look up!" whispered a voice into his ear.

He did so, and saw a woman's body hanging half out of an upper
window. It hung limp, and the sight made him sick, notwithstanding
his threescore years of experience.

"Who's that?" he cried. "That's not Agatha Webb."

"No, that's Batsy, the cook. She's dead as well as her mistress.
We left her where we found her for the coroner to see."

"But this is horrible," murmured Mr. Sutherland. "Has there been a
butcher here?"

As he uttered these words, he felt another quick pressure on his
arm. Looking down, he saw leaning against him the form of a young
woman, but before he could address her she had started upright
again and was moving on with the throng. It was Miss Page.

"It was the sight of this woman hanging from the window which
first drew attention to the house," volunteered a man who was
standing as a sort of guardian at the main gateway. "Some of the
sailors' wives who had been to the wharves to see their husbands
off on the ship that sailed at daybreak, saw it as they came up
the lane on their way home, and gave the alarm. Without that we
might not have known to this hour what had happened."