Then I remembered an omission.
Retracing my steps, I regained the attic. The body lay rigid and cold as I had left it a few minutes before.
I closed the eyes, and then went home.
Chapter Twenty Three.
The Dead Woman’s Picture.
About seven that evening I turned out of the Charing Cross Hotel, where I had taken up a temporary abode, and strolled down the Strand towards the club, having arranged to dine there with Bob and Rivers.
Deeply meditating, endeavouring to account for the strange events of the early morning, I was heedless of those around me, and unconscious of the presence of any one I knew until I felt a smart slap on the back and heard a voice shout,—
“Hulloa, old fellow! Found you at last! Why, you look as glum as if you’d been to a funeral.”