"It's Trafford, the detective. He's said to be on this Wing murder case."
"Oh, is that so?" she said, raising her glasses again. "In that case, I suppose one's permitted to look at him, since that's largely his stock in trade. He doesn't look smart."
"That's his stock in trade too," said Charles, a trifle impatiently for the son of such a woman. "If he looked half as smart as he is, he'd look too smart for his work, and if he was really as dull as he looks, he'd be too stupid."
"And they depend on him to unravel the Wing murder?" she asked.
"Oh, the Wing murder," echoed an acquaintance who was passing. "Why didn't that stupid coroner arrest that fellow Oldman—if that was his name? My husband says if he takes the opportunity to run away, it may be interesting for the coroner. Of course, nobody has a doubt that he's the murderer. You think so, Mr. Matthewson, don't you?"
"I think it will be a great wrong if such a wanton murder goes unpunished," he answered.
"Yes," said the mother carelessly; "but the mo-
