"Who's the dead man? Ah! there's the puzzle—and the joke! The dead man must be me. It's in the papers—in people's mouths—it's the talk of the town. The police are searching for the wretch that slew me—the coroner and his jury have viewed my body. It's plain the dead man must be me. And yet, although it's very odd, he isn't. It's the rarest jest that ever yet was played—and all hers." He pointed with his thumb along the passage. "It's all her doing, conception and execution, both. And how she has enjoyed it! Ever since she has done nothing else but laugh. Can't you hear her? She's laughing now!"
There did seem to come, through the door which was at the end of the passage, the sound of a woman's laughter. We all heard it. The lady drew closer to me; I gritted my teeth; the inspector, with whom, as yet, it had no uncomfortable associations, treated it as though it were nothing out of the way.
"Who's it you've got in there?"
Lawrence raised his hands as if they had been notes of exclamation.
"A goddess! Such an one!—a pearl of the pantheon! A demon!—out of the very heart of hell!" He fingered his shirt-collar as if it were tight about his neck. "That's why she relished her humorous conception more than I have. The
