urated with it. It is evident that the murderer arose from her side while she slept, dealt her a stunning blow with the chair, then ran into the back room and got the knife. On returning, he found her standing up on the floor, she having staggered to her feet and endeavored to make her way to the door, probably with some dim, undefined, instinctive impulse, to call for assistance. He has then got her down upon the floor, stifled her voice with the pillow, and finished his work with the knife. He has then risen, searched her trunk and bureau-drawers for money and valuables, felt his way into the back room, and there washed his hands and face, wiping the bloody water off them upon the towel, dressed himself, and then coolly departed. This much can be inferred by the marks of blood on the wall, of bloody hands upon the clothing in the trunk and bureau, on the lace curtains and on the middle door, but all else is idle conjecture, and the murderer carries the secret with him to the grave, despite the efforts of a really efficient and energetic police.
Out in the street once more. The city is silent, and the streets deserted at last; we have seen enough for one night; enough for a life-time of this sort of thing, you say. Well, we will not quarrel with you on a matter of taste. And so, just as the first faint light of the grey dawn begins to flush the eastern horizon beyond the Contra Costa hills, we break up our little party, and wend our way to our several homes. Thus ends our long-night's "Cruise on the Barbary Coast."
