The Old Man in the Corner was in a philosophising mood that afternoon, and all the while that his thin, claw-like fingers fidgeted with the inevitable piece of string, he gave vent to various, disjointed, always sententious remarks.
Suddenly he said:
"We know, of course, that the world has gone dancing mad! But I doubt if the fashionable craze has ever been responsible before for so dark a tragedy as the death of old Sarah Levison. What do you think?"
"Well," I replied guardedly, for I knew that, whatever I might say, I should draw an avalanche of ironical remarks upon my innocent head, "I never have known what to think, and all the accounts of that brutal murder as they appeared in the cheaper Press only made the obscurity all the more obscure."
"That was a wise and well-thought-out reply," the aggravating creature retorted with a dry chuckle, "and a non-committal one at that. Obscurity is indeed obscure for those who won't take the trouble to think."
"I suppose it is all quite clear to you?" I said, with what I meant to be withering sarcasm.
"As clear as the proverbial daylight," he replied undaunted.
"You know how old Mrs. Levison came by her death?"
"Of course I do. I will tell you, if you like."
"By all means. But I am not prepared to be convinced," I added cautiously.