"Well, the ides of June have come, Sister Wade!" I said, when I met her, parodying Caesar.
"But not yet gone," she answered; and a profound sense of foreboding spread over her speaking face as she uttered the words.
Her oracle disquieted me.

"Why, I dined there last night," I cried; "and all seemed exceptionally well." "The calm before the storm, perhaps," she murmured.
Just at that moment I heard a boy crying in the street: "Pall mall Gazette; 'ere y'are; speshul edishun! Shocking tragedy at the West-end! Orful murder! 'Ere y'are! Spechul Globe! Pall Mall, extry speshul!" A weird tremor broke over me.

I walked down into the street and bought a paper.

There it stared me in the face on the middle page: "Tragedy at Campden Hill: Well-known Barrister Murders his Wife.

Sensational Details." I looked closer and read.