man."

I did not quite understand that, although those who followed the trial
carefully may do so. Poor Mr. Howell! I am sure he believed that it
was only a good story. He got the description of my onyx clock and
wrote it down, and I gave him the manuscript for Mr. Ladley. That was
the last I saw of him for some time.

That Thursday proved to be an exciting day. For late in the afternoon
Terry, digging the mud out of the cellar, came across my missing gray
false front near the coal vault, and brought it up, grinning. And just
before six, Mr. Graves, the detective, rang the bell and then let
himself in. I found him in the lower hall, looking around.

"Well, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "has our friend come back yet?"

"She was no friend of mine."

"Not _she_. Ladley. He'll be out this evening, and he'll probably be
around for his clothes."

I felt my knees waver, as they always did when he was spoken of.

"He may want to stay here," said Mr. Graves. "In fact, I think that's
just what he _will_ want."

"Not here," I protested. "The very thought of him makes me quake."

"If he comes here, better take him in. I want to know where he is."

I tried to say that I wouldn't have him, but the old habit of the ward
asserted itself. From taking a bottle of beer or a slice of pie,
to telling one where one might or might not live, the police were
autocrats in that neighborhood. And, respectable woman that I am, my
neighbors' fears of the front office have infected me.

"All right, Mr. Graves," I said.

He pushed the parlor door open and looked in, whistling. "This is the
place, isn't it?"

"Yes. But it was up-stairs that he--"

"I see. Tall woman, Mrs. Ladley?"

"Tall and blond. Very airy in her manner."

He nodded and still stood looking in and whistling. "Never heard her
speak of a town named Horner, did you?"

"Horner? No."

"I see." He turned and wandered out again into the hall, still
whistling. At the door, however, he stopped and turned. "Look anything
like this?" he asked, and held out one of his hands, with a small
kodak picture on the palm.

It was a snap-shot of a children's frolic in a village street, with
some onlookers in the background. Around one of the heads had been
drawn a circle in pencil. I took it to the gas-jet and looked at it
closely. It was a tall woman with a hat on, not unlike Jennie Brice.
She was looking over the crowd, and I could see only her face, and
that in shadow. I shook my head