laughed, rising in my anxiety to hide any
show of feeling at the directness of this purely accidental attack. But
the item struck me as an important one. Mr. Robinson gave me a keen look
as I uttered the usual commonplaces and prepared to take my leave.

"May I ask your intentions in this matter?" said he.

"I wish I knew them myself," was my perfectly candid answer. "It strikes
me now that my first step should be to ascertain whether there exists
any secret connection between the two houses which would enable the
Misses Quinlan or their emissaries to gain access to their old home,
without ready detection. I know of none, and--"

"There is none," broke in its now emphatic agent. "A half-dozen tenants,
to say nothing of Mr. Searles himself, have looked it carefully over.
All the walls are intact; there is absolutely no opening anywhere for
surreptitious access."

"Possibly not. You certainly discourage me very much. I had hoped much
from my theory. But we are not done with the matter. Mrs. Packard's mind
must be cleared of its fancies, if it is in my power to do it. You will
hear from me again, Mr. Robinson. Meanwhile, I may be sure of your good
will?"

"Certainly, certainly, and of my cooperation also, if you want it."

"Thank you," said I, and left the office.

His last look was one of interest not untinged by compassion.

CHAPTER XI. BESS

On my way back I took the opposite side of the street from that I
usually approached. When I reached the little shop I paused. First
glancing at the various petty articles exposed in the window, I quietly
stepped in. A contracted and very low room met my eyes, faintly lighted
by a row of panes in the upper half of the door and not at all by the
window, which was hung on the inside with a heavy curtain. Against two
sides of this room were arranged shelves filled with boxes labeled in
the usual way to indicate their contents. These did not strike me as
being very varied or of a very high order. There was no counter in
front, only some tables on which lay strewn fancy boxes of thread and
other useless knick-knacks to which certain shopkeepers appear to cling
though they can seldom find customers for them. A woman stood at one of
these tables untangling a skein of red yarn. Behind her I saw another
leaning in an abstracted way over a counter which ran from wall to wall
across the extreme end of the shop. This I took to be Bess. She had
made no move at my entrance and