But no one claimed acquaintance with the still thing on the floor.

Behind the man there had been a prosperous suburban couple. The woman was moaning continuously and without expression, "Oh, let's go home, Jimmy! Oh, let's go home!" On the opposite side of the guichet stood the fat woman, arrested by this sudden horror, grasping her ticket in her black cotton gloves but making no effort to secure a seat now that the way lay open to her. Down the waiting line behind, the news went like fire in stubble — a man had been murdered! and the crowd in the sloping vestibule began to mill suddenly in hopeless confusion as some tried to get away from the thing that had spoiled all thought of entertainment, and some tried to push forward to see, and some indignant ones fought to keep the place they had stood so many hours for.

"Oh, let's go home, Jimmy! Oh, let's go home!"

Jimmy spoke for the first time. "I don't think we can, old girl, until the police decide whether they want us or not."

The constable heard him and said, "You're quite right there. You can't go. You first six will stay where you are — and you, missus," he added to the fat woman. "The rest come on." And he waved them on as he would wave the traffic past a broken-down car.

Jimmy's wife broke into hysterical sobbing, and the fat woman expostulated. She had come to see the show and didn't know anything about the man. The four People behind the suburban couple were equally reluctant to be mixed up in a thing they knew nothing about, with results that no one could foresee. They too protested their ignorance.

"Maybe," said the policeman, "but you'll have to explain all that at the station. There's nothing to be scared of," he added for their comfort, and rather unconvincingly in the circumstances.

So the queue came on. The doorkeeper brought a green curtain from somewhere and covered up the body. The automatic clink and rattle of coin began again and went on, indifferent as rain.