Brown touched his helmet. "A very trying time for you, ma'am," he said, "a very trying time. You went through it bravely."
She smiled Wanly. "My poor brother! He had so many good points. But it is better as it is. I shudder to think of what might have been, if he had not done this dreadful thing."
"Much the best way, ma'am, much the best way," corroborated Brown.
She went out, a graceful figure, and Brown turned to his younger colleague.
"A remarkable case, old chap. As we said all along, suicide."
The younger man paused a little before he replied. It may be mentioned that a few months later he was promoted to the detective force in consequence of some rather clever work connected with a gang of coiners in an obscure corner of the West End.
"It looks like it, but I'm not quite as sure as you are," he said laconically.
Brown stared, but made no comment. A verdict was a verdict. His young colleague had the inexperience and the vanity of youth, and thought he was more clever than other people, perhaps!
But on one thing the young constable had made up his mind, and that was that Miles, the bibulous caretaker, had not told the truth when in the witness-box. He came to this conclusion from his demeanour. Miles swore that he had no knowledge of the dead man, but the constable believed this to be a lie.
And with the tame ending of the Coroner's inquest, the mystery of No. 10 Cathcart Square ceased to hold the public interest. Plenty of other things came on to attract their attention.