"'I say, my man, what's the matter with you?' I demanded, seizing him by the arm, and giving him a shake to start up his ideas a little.
"'Matter? matter?' he gasped; 'matter enough—murder's the matter!'
"'What's that?' I demanded, sternly; 'what's that you say, sir?'
"'I say the old woman lies murdered on a lounge, in her saloon down there,' and he pointed down the stone steps.
"'What! Mrs. Ernst murdered?' exclaimed a voice at my side.
"I looked round, and saw that we had been joined by Henry M. Cohen, the watchmaker; and in less than a minute more there were at least a dozen people about us."
"You went into the house, of course, George?" said Old Spicer, inquiringly.
"Yes; the milkman, Cohen, and I entered the room where the dead body was stretched on the sofa."
"You got a good look at it, then, before it was disturbed?"
"Yes, when we first entered the old woman was lying on her left side, with her face to the wall."