The landlady, who had been joined by a white-faced, tremulous man, wiped her eyes, and replied in a shaky voice: "Her name, poor child, was Minna Adler. She was a German. She came from Bremen about two years ago. She had no friends in England—no relatives, I mean. She was a waitress at a restaurant in Fenchurch Street, and a good, quiet, hard-working girl."
"When did you discover what had happened?"
"About eleven o'clock. I thought she had gone to work as usual, but my husband noticed from the back yard that her blind was still down. So I went up and knocked, and when I got no answer, I opened the door and went in, and then I saw—" Here the poor soul, overcome by the dreadful recollection, burst into hysterical sobs.
"Her door was unlocked, then; did she usually lock it?"
"I think so," sobbed Mrs. Goldstein. "The key was always inside."
"And the street door; was that secure when you came down this morning?"
"It was shut. We don't bolt it because some of the lodgers come home rather late."
"And now tell us, had she any enemies? Was there anyone who had a grudge against her?"
"No, no, poor child! Why should anyone have a grudge against her? No, she had no quarrel—no real quarrel—with anyone; not even with Miriam."
"Miriam!" inquired the inspector. "Who is she?"