ead. At the threshold he halted.

"Good night, Miss La Mode," he said. "I trust your night's repose may be
restful and refreshing to you, ma'am."

She lifted her face from the pillow and spoke, without turning to look
at him.

"Mister," she said, "I've told you the whole truth about that thing and
I ain't goin' to lie to you about anythin' else. I didn't come from
Indianapolis, Indiana, like I told you. My home is in Swainboro', this
state--a little town. You might know where it is? And my real name ain't
La Mode, neither. I taken it out of a book--the La Mode part--and I
always did think Blanche was an awful sweet name for a girl. But my real
name is Gussie Stammer. Good night, mister. I'm much obliged to you fer
listenin', and I ain't goin' to disturb you no more with my cryin' if I
kin help it."

As the major gently closed her door behind him he heard her give a long,
sleepy sigh, like a tired child. Back in his own room he glanced about
him, meanwhile feeling himself over for writing material. He found in
his pockets a pencil and a couple of old letters, whereas he knew he
needed a big sheaf of copy paper for the story he had to write. Anyway,
there was no place here to do an extended piece of writing--no desk and
no comfortable chair. The office would be a much better place.

The office was only a matter of two or three blocks away. The negro
watchman would be there; he stayed on duty all night. Using the corner
of his washstand for a desk, the major set down his notes--names,
places, details, dates--upon the backs of his two letters. This done, he
settled his ancient hat on his head, picked up his cane, and in another
minute was tiptoeing down the stairs and out the front doorway. Once
outside, his tread took on the brisk emphasis of one set upon an
important task and in a hurry to do it.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later Major Stone sat at his desk in the empty city room of
the Evening Press. Except for Henry, the old black night watchman, there
was no other person in the building anywhere. Just over his head an
incandescent bulb blazed, bringing out in strong relief the major's
intent old face, mullioned with crisscross lines. A cedar pencil, newly
sharpened, was in his fingers; under his right hand was a block of clean
copy paper. His notes lay in front of him, the little stubnosed pistol
serving as a paper weight to hold the two wrinkled envelopes flat.
Through the loop of th