The old hostelry was crowded.

Newspaper men and women from all parts of the country flocked there, and also many not connected with the press, who were morbidly curious and revelled in the sickly excitement of thinking they might be living in the house of a poisoner.

Lucinda Hart sent in her resignation from the church choir.

Her experience, the first time she had sung after Eliza Farrel's death, did not exactly daunt her; she was not easily daunted.

But she had raised her husky contralto, and lifted her elderly head in its flowered bonnet before that watchful audience of old friends and neighbors, and had gone home and written her stiffly worded note of resignation.
She attended church the following Sunday.