n the strength of it, you are no friend of mine."

We stumbled through the twilight of the staircase into the blackness
of the shuttered kitchen. The house had the moldy smell of closed
buildings: even on that warm September morning it was damp and chilly.
As we stepped into the sunshine McKnight gave a shiver.

"Now that we are out," he said, "I don't mind telling you that I have
been there before. Do you remember the night you left, and, the face at
the window?"

"When you speak of it--yes."

"Well, I was curious about that thing," he went on, as we started up the
street, "and I went back. The street door was unlocked, and I examined
every room. I was Mrs. Klopton's ghost that carried a light, and clumb."

"Did you find anything?"

"Only a clean place rubbed on the window opposite your dressing-room.
Splendid view of an untidy interior. If that house is ever occupied,
you'd better put stained glass in that window of yours."

As we turned the corner I glanced back. Half a block behind us Johnson
was moving our way slowly. When he saw me he stopped and proceeded with
great deliberation to light a cigar. By hurrying, however, he caught
the car that we took, and stood unobtrusively on the rear platform.
He looked fagged, and absent-mindedly paid our fares, to McKnight's
delight.

"We will give him a run for his money," he declared, as the car moved
countryward. "Conductor, let us off at the muddiest lane you can find."

At one o'clock, after a six-mile ramble, we entered a small country
hotel. We had seen nothing of Johnson for a half hour. At that time he
was a quarter of a mile behind us, and losing rapidly. Before we had
finished our luncheon he staggered into the inn. One of his boots was
under his arm, and his whole appearance was deplorable. He was coated
with mud, streaked with perspiration, and he limped as he walked. He
chose a table not far from us and ordered Scotch. Beyond touching his
hat he paid no attention to us.

"I'm just getting my second wind," McKnight declared. "How do you feel,
Mr. Johnson? Six or eight miles more and we'll all enjoy our dinners."
Johnson put down the glass he had raised to his lips without replying.

The fact was, however, that I was like Johnson. I was soft from my
week's inaction, and I was pretty well done up. McKnight, who was a well
spring of vitality and high spirits, ordered a strange concoction, made
of nearly everything in the bar, and sent it over to the detec