d axiom in the mills around here, 'never sit down on a
piece of metal until you spit on it.' If it sizzles, don't sit." He
grinned. "Your best position just now, young man, is standing, with your
hands over your head. Confidentially, there ain't anything within
expectorating distance just now that ain't pretty well het up."

He left me with that, and I did not see him again until the night at the
White Cat, when he helped put me through the transom. Recently, however,
I have met him several times. He invariably mentions the eight dollars
and his intention of repaying it. Unfortunately, the desire and the
ability have not yet happened to coincide.

I took the evening train to Bellwood, and got there shortly after eight,
in the midst of the Sunday evening calm, and the calm of a place like
Bellwood is the peace of death without the hope of resurrection.

I walked slowly up the main street, which was lined with residences; the
town relegated its few shops to less desirable neighborhoods. My first
intention had been to see the Episcopal minister, but the rectory was
dark, and a burst of organ music from the church near reminded me again
of the Sunday evening services.

Promiscuous inquiry was not advisable. So far, Miss Jane's disappearance
was known to very few, and Hunter had advised caution. I wandered up the
street and turned at random to the right; a few doors ahead a newish red
brick building proclaimed itself the post-office, and gave the only sign
of life in the neighborhood. It occurred to me that here inside was the
one individual who, theoretically at least, in a small place always
knows the idiosyncrasies of its people.

The door was partly open, for the spring night was sultry. The
postmaster proved to be a one-armed veteran of the Civil War, and he was
sorting rapidly the contents of a mail-bag, emptied on the counter.

"No delivery to-night," he said shortly. "Sunday delivery, two to
three."

"I suppose, then, I couldn't get a dollar's worth of stamps," I
regretted.

He looked up over his glasses.

"We don't sell stamps on Sunday nights," he explained, more politely.
"But if you're in a hurry for them--"

"I am," I lied. And after he had got them out, counting them with a
wrinkled finger, and tearing them off the sheet with the deliberation of
age, I opened a general conversation.

"I suppose you do a good bit of business here?" I asked. "It seems like
a thriving place."

"Not so bad; big mail