that strange gurgle which proclaims an utterly irresponsible mind,
he cried:

"The pussy cat! It was the pussy cat. Who's killed? I'm not
killed. Let's go to Jericho."

Mr. Sutherland took him by the arm and led him up-stairs. Perhaps
the sight of his dead wife would restore him. But he looked at her
with the same indifference he showed to everything else.

"I don't like her calico dresses," said he. "She might have worn
silk, but she wouldn't. Agatha, will you wear silk to my funeral?"

The experiment was too painful, and they drew him away. But the
constable's curiosity had been roused, and after they had found
some one to take care of him, he drew Mr. Sutherland aside and
said:

"What did the old man mean by saying she might have worn silk? Are
they better off than they seem?" Mr. Sutherland closed the door
before replying.

"They are rich," he declared, to the utter amazement of the other.
"That is, they were; but they may have been robbed; if so,
Philemon was not the wretch who killed her. I have been told that
she kept her money in an old-fashioned cupboard. Do you suppose
they alluded to that one?"

He pointed to a door set in the wall over the fireplace, and Mr.
Fenton, perceiving a key sticking in the lock, stepped quickly