Jack wandered irresolutely to Piccadilly Circus, seeking distraction. In the American bar at the St. James' he met a man named Ingram, who suggested that they should go to see a mutual friend—an artist—who lived in Bedford Park. Jack agreed, and they drove in a cab. They found a lot of other men they knew at the studio, and whisky and tobacco made the hours fly. They left at two o'clock in the morning—a convivial party of five—and they had to walk to Hammersmith before they picked up a hansom. They dropped off one by one, and Jack was the only occupant when he reached Sloane street. It was long past four when the cab put him down at his lodgings on the Surrey side.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A THUNDERBOLT FROM THE BLUE.
Another day dawned, as wet and gloomy as the preceding ones. It was the middle of the morning when Jack got out of bed, and as he dressed he heard the penetrating voices of newsboys ringing through the Waterloo Bridge road. He could not distinguish what they were saying, though he judged that the papers must contain some intelligence of unusual importance. He rang for his breakfast, and his landlady, Mrs. Jones, appeared in person, bringing coffee, rolls and bacon on a tray. Her face was flushed with excitement.
"Oh, Mr. Vernon, 'ave you 'eard?" she exclaimed. "There was a 'orrible murder last night! I do pity the poor, dear creature—"
"I don't want to be shocked," Jack curtly interrupted. "Murders are common enough. But you might send me up a paper."
"And you won't 'ear—"
"Not now, my good woman."
Mrs. Jones put down the tray, tossed her head, and departed in a huff. The paper arrived five minutes later, and Jack glanced over it while he sipped his coffee. One of the inside pages suddenly confronted him with huge headlines: "The Beak Street Murder!" He read further down the column, and his face turned as pale as ashes; he swayed in his chair.