A few moments after the landau had deposited Jasper Lamotte at the gate of the vacant lot, a pedestrian, striding swiftly along, as if eager to be upon the scene and sate his curiosity, came in among the group of men that, all day long, had hovered about the cellar.
"What's a going on here?" he demanded of the first man upon whom his glance fell, "an—accident?"
"Good Lord!" exclaimed the man, who was one of Old Forty Rod's customers; "where have you come from that you don't know a man has been killed!"
"Killed!"
"Yes, murdered! stabbed last night and buried in this old cellar."
"Heavens, man! was—was he a citizen?"
"Well, I should say! and a rum chap, too. Why, you are a stranger to these parts if you don't know John Burrill."
"Never heard of him in my life, old Top," replied the stranger. "I don't live in these parts."
The man drew back a little, and seeing this, the stranger came closer and laid one hand familiarly upon his arm, at the same time leaning nearer, and saying in a loud whisper:
"Any of the stiff's friends in this gang?"