Two awful catastrophes have occurred. One Englishman in London is dead, and I have scandalised about twenty of his nearest and dearest friends.
He was a man nearly seventy years old, engaged in the business of an architect, and immensely respected. That was all I knew about him till I began to circulate among his friends in these parts, trying to cheer them up and make them forget the fog.
"Hush!" said a man and his wife. "Don't you know he died yesterday of a sudden attack of pneumonia? Isn't it shocking?"
"Yes," said I vaguely. "Aw'fly shocking. Has he left his wife provided for?"
"Oh, he's very well off indeed, and his wife is quite old. But just think—it was only in the next street it happened!" Then I saw that their grief was not for Strangeways, deceased, but for themselves.
"How old was he?" I said.
"Nearly seventy, or maybe a little over."