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Half an hour later, excited tenants were rushing to and fro, the most daring of them even venturing into the apartment. Someone telephoned for the police. Three policemen arrived within half an hour, asking questions and ordering folks to be silent, simultaneously. In the closet of the bedroom of the apartment the body of Irene Graham had been found. She had been strangled with a towel. She had been dead just about one week. There was no sign of any other occupant of the apartment.

One trunk was in the apartment, half full of bedding. An empty suitcase stood nearby. The window of the bedroom was partly open. The window led to a fire-escape. The drawers of the chiffonier and the dressing-table were pulled out, their contents scattered, chairs were overturned. Evidently a struggle had taken place.

At first glance, the police said that a burglar had committed the crime. But only at first glance.

Little things began to creep out. After one day there was enough evidence to hold Dennison. In three months more he had been convicted. Now his electrocution had followed. To the end, as is frequently the case, Dennison had pleaded innocence, but there was not one single person in the city of New York, perhaps, who believed him innocent of the crime for which he paid with his life.

Those who looked into the affair admitted that Dennison had planned carefully enough to make it seem as if a burglar had committed the crime. There was the woman, bound, gagged, dead. There was the window, on the fire-escape, by which the thief could have entered and escaped. There were the rifled drawers. Miss Graham’s jewelry — all but one piece, that is, and even a burglar might have overlooked a small wrist-watch — was gone. What more natural than that a burglar should enter an apartment, start rifling its contents, see a young woman, struggle with her, finally strangle her with a towel and make his escape?

Dennison had evidently left the apartment for good the day the murder was committed. He said he had gone out a day or two before the murder and had never returned, that, when he left, he had planned not to return. Several things pointed to the fact that the murder was committed on a Thursday evening. Miss Graham had planned to go away that evening. She was never seen alive again. A letter was found in the letter-box. It had been delivered the next morning. It was from Dennison, and in it he told her he hoped she would be as sensible as she had seemed, when they parted. He enclosed a check. It was a generous check, his lawyers pointed out. It could well afford to be, the district attorney answered, when Dennison knew his victim could never cash it.

Just at first, the thing did look as if a burglar had done it. Then, little things—

Neighbors gave proof that helped convict Dennison. Little Mrs. Peterson, who lived across the hall, had been glad to tell her bit. It was the first time Mrs. Peterson had ever got into the lime-light, and she rather gloried in it. She was a slender woman with a thin nose and rather beady eyes.

Mrs. Peterson had been a friend of Mrs. Dennison — Miss Graham, that is. She had always liked her — had known her for two years. The Dennisons — well, the two of them, had been awfully happy for a longtime, happier than most married couples. Then, a few months before, things had changed. She had found Miss Graham crying. Finally, Miss Graham admitted that Dennison was no longer kind to her. He was cruel — awfully cruel. He threatened to leave her. He said he was in love with another woman. Miss Graham had done all she could, cooked the things he liked best. She was a good cook, a nice little woman, quiet, well-bred, pretty, too, with short light bobbed hair. Mrs. Peterson would never forget how she looked — when she saw her there, dead — her blonde, bobbed hair — her poor stained fingers, her little stained apron...

Yes, the quarreling had gone on — got worse all the time. Then a couple of days before — before the end, Miss Graham had cried all the time. But that morning, things had changed. Miss Graham had come to her, awfully happy, to say that Dennison and she had made up, that they were going away on a two week’s vacation up in Westchester. They’d have a lot of fun. The janitor brought up the trunks — she didn’t know just when — Dennison’s trunk and Miss Graham’s — of course, the very one in the apartment. Miss Graham and she had gone down at the same time to answer the postman’s ring and later, Miss Graham had called her in as she packed and she had stood and watched her. Miss Graham had packed blankets for use in the cottage — Miss Graham had told about using a cottage belonging to a member of Dennison’s firm. The other trunk was packed, then. It left early Thursday morning. Miss Graham had gone out into the hall with the boy, and coming back had said she had told him to come later for the other trunk.

Later, Mrs. Peterson remembered, the square trunk had gone, though she had seen it come back, too. Miss Graham had opened the door for it and she had spoken to her, again.

“Just think,” she had said, “we won’t need this trunk, after all. There are plenty of blankets at the lodge and as we have got a long automobile trip at the other end, there’s no use taking it. All that bother for nothing.”

Mrs. Peterson had stepped into the Dennison apartment for a moment. Miss Graham had been — yes — she had been baking blueberry pie. The pie was just finished. Miss Graham had said that blueberry pies were Dennison’s favorite dish — Miss Graham didn’t care much for it, herself. Dennison wouldn’t have a homemade one for a couple of weeks and blueberries might be gone by the time they got back, so Miss Graham was making one for his dinner. She didn’t want to cut it, now, but she’d bring Mrs. Peterson over a piece, later. Miss Graham had worn that little gingham housedress, with the blue apron over it — the clothes she had been found dead in — and her fingers, even then, had been stained with the berries from the blueberry pie.

Mrs. Peterson never saw Miss Graham again. Never, that is, while she was alive. She had looked at the body to identify it — if identification were needed. She had seen the bobbed blonde hair, the little, berry-stained apron — the terrible berry-stained fingers — after a whole week. She had seen the pie again, too, there on the kitchen table, with its one piece missing.

Mrs. Peterson’s evidence was important. But there were other things. The watch, for one. Another neighbor, a Mrs. Grant, had told, eagerly, about the watch. She, too, had seen Miss Graham that very Thursday — that afternoon. She, too, had heard about the promised vacation. Miss Graham was coming in and in the lower hall, they had stopped and talked. Miss Graham’s arms were full of bundles.

“I’m going to bake a pie,” she had said.

Miss Graham had asked the time — and mentioned that Mr. Dennison was having her watch repaired — would bring it home that night — she was lost without it. Miss Graham usually wore a small wrist watch — yes, Mrs. Grant had seen it frequently. Yes — the one they found on the dressing table. Miss Graham had glanced at her bare wrist, instinctively, Mrs. Grant remembered. She had said how she would have hated to be away two weeks without a watch. Mrs. Grant hadn’t seen Miss Graham again. But she had seen the watch again — there on the dressing table — and later in the court-room. Yes — she had glanced at the body with its tumbled light short hair, its familiar little apron — a terrible thing — you can’t tell what your neighbors will do, these days — Dennison had seemed like such a nice fellow...