.

"I thought not," he said. "We have a lot of stage pictures of her, but
what with false hair and their being retouched beyond recognition,
they don't amount to much." He started out, and stopped on the
door-step to light a cigar.

"Take him on if he comes," he said. "And keep your eyes open. Feed him
well, and he won't kill you!"

I had plenty to think of when I was cooking Mr. Reynolds' supper: the
chance that I might have Mr. Ladley again, and the woman at Horner.
For it had come to me like a flash, as Mr. Graves left, that the
"Horn--" on the paper slip might have been "Horner."

CHAPTER VII

After all, there was nothing sensational about Mr. Ladley's return. He
came at eight o'clock that night, fresh-shaved and with his hair cut,
and, although he had a latch-key, he rang the door-bell. I knew his
ring, and I thought it no harm to carry an old razor of Mr. Pitman's
with the blade open and folded back on the handle, the way the colored
people use them, in my left hand.

But I saw at once that he meant no mischief.

"Good evening," he said, and put out his hand. I jumped back, until I
saw there was nothing in it and that he only meant to shake hands. I
didn't do it; I might have to take him in, and make his bed, and cook
his meals, but I did not have to shake hands with him.

"You, too!" he said, looking at me with what I suppose he meant to be
a reproachful look. But he could no more put an expression of that
sort in his eyes than a fish could. "I suppose, then, there is no use
asking if I may have my old room? The front room. I won't need two."

I didn't want him, and he must have seen it. But I took him. "You may
have it, as far as I'm concerned," I said. "But you'll have to let the
paper-hanger in to-morrow."

"Assuredly." He came into the hall and stood looking around him, and I
fancied he drew a breath of relief. "It isn't much yet," he said, "but
it's better to look at than six feet of muddy water."

"Or than stone walls," I said.

He looked at me and smiled. "Or than stone walls," he repeated,
bowing, and went into his room.

So I had him again, and if I gave him only the dull knives, and locked
up the bread-knife the moment I had finished with it, who can blame
me? I took all the precaution I could think of: had Terry put an extra
bolt on every door, and hid the rat poison and the carbolic acid in
the cellar.

Peter would not go near him. He hobbled around on his three legs, with
the