tive, but
Johnson refused it.

"I hate that kind of person," McKnight said pettishly. "Kind of a fellow
that thinks you're going to poison his dog if you offer him a bone."

When we got back to the car line, with Johnson a draggled and drooping
tail to the kite, I was in better spirits. I had told McKnight the story
of the three hours just after the wreck; I had not named the girl, of
course; she had my promise of secrecy. But I told him everything else.
It was a relief to have a fresh mind on it: I had puzzled so much over
the incident at the farm-house, and the necklace in the gold bag, that I
had lost perspective.

He had been interested, but inclined to be amused, until I came to the
broken chain. Then he had whistled softly.

"But there are tons of fine gold chains made every year," he said. "Why
in the world do you think that the--er--smeary piece came from that
necklace?"

I had looked around. Johnson was far behind, scraping the mud off his
feet with a piece of stick.

"I have the short end of the chain in the sealskin bag," I reminded him.
"When I couldn't sleep this morning I thought I would settle it, one
way or the other. It was hell to go along the way I had been doing.
And--there's no doubt about it, Rich. It's the same chain."

We walked along in silence until we caught the car back to town.

"Well," he said finally, "you know the girl, of course, and I don't. But
if you like her--and I think myself you're rather hard hit, old man--I
wouldn't give a whoop about the chain in the gold purse. It's just one
of the little coincidences that hang people now and then. And as for
last night--if she's the kind of a girl you say she is, and you think
she had anything to do with that, you--you're addled, that's all. You
can depend on it, the lady of the empty house last week is the lady
of last night. And yet your train acquaintance was in Altoona at that
time."

Just before we got off the car, I reverted to the subject again. It was
never far back in my mind.

"About the--young lady of the train, Rich," I said, with what I suppose
was elaborate carelessness, "I don't want you to get a wrong impression.
I am rather unlikely to see her again, but even if I do, I--I believe
she is already 'bespoke,' or next thing to it."

He made no reply, but as I opened the door with my latch-key he stood
looking up at me from the pavement with his quizzical smile.

"Love is like the measles," he orated. "The older you