"Ah, sir, he's gone where we must all go;" and Mrs. Marry wiped away an imaginary tear.
But her remark called forth a question from Blair, who had been making a close examination of the room:
"How do you know he is dead?"
"Bless the man! wouldn't he be back if he wasn't? I'm sure he was comfortable enough, and my cooking is above blame, thank Heaven! If any one----"
"Mr. Brown went out at nine o'clock?" said Blair, cutting her short.
"I won't deceive you, Mr. Policeman, he did. He stayed in most of the day, and went out in the afternoon. At six he came back for his bit and sup, and at nine he went out again to take the air. He said so, at least, and I ain't set eyes on him since."
"He said so?" remarked Mr. Phelps.
"On his fingers, of course. He was dumb, sir, but not deaf, and he conversed on his fingers wonderful. I can talk myself that way," said Mrs. Marry gravely, "having a niece as is deaf and dumb in an asylum. I expect it was my knowing the language as brought Mr. Brown here to lodge."
"Where did he come from?"
"London town, he gave me to understand, sir. But he didn't talk much--on his fingers--about himself. He was very quiet, ate and drank, read books----"