ross by the window is one of the chamber maids, leanin' up against
the casing and snifflin' into the expensive draperies.

"Well, well!" says I. "Is this a rehearsal for a Hank Ibsen sprinkler
scene, or is it a case of missin' jewels?"

"It's nothing of the sort, Shorty," says Sadie, giving me the shut-off
signal. Then she turns to the girl with a "There, there, Nora!
Everything will be all right. And I will be around Sunday afternoon.
Run along now, and don't worry." With that she leads Nora out to the
door and sends her away with a shoulder pat.

"Who's been getting friendly with the help now; eh, Sadie?" says I.
"And what's the woe about?"

Course she begins at the wrong end, and throws in a lot of details that
only lumbers up the record; but after she's been talkin' for half an
hour--and Sadie can separate herself from a lot of language in that
time--I gets a good workin' outline of this domestic tragedy that has
left damp spots on our window curtains.

It ain't near so harrowin', though, as you might suspect. Seems that
Nora has the weepin' habit. That's how Sadie come to remember havin'
seen her before. Also it counts for Nora's shiftin' so often. Folks
like Mrs. Purdy Pell and the Twombley-Cranes can't keep a girl around
that's liable to weep into the soup or on the card tray. If it wa'n't
for that, Nora'd been all right; for she's a neat lookin' girl, handy
and willin',--one of these slim, rosy cheeked, black haired, North of
Ireland kind, that can get big wages, when they have the sense, which
ain't often.

Well, she'd changed around until she lands here in the fresh linen
department, workin' reg'lar twelve-hour shifts, one afternoon off a
week, and a four-by-six room up under the copper roof, with all the
chance in the world to weep and no one to pay any attention to her,
until Sadie catches her at it. Trust Sadie!

When she finds Nora leakin' her troubles out over an armful of clean
towels, she drags her in here and asks for the awful facts. Then comes
the fam'ly history of the Dillons, beginnin' on the old rent at
Ballyshannon and endin' in a five-room flat on Double Fifth-ave. When
she comes to mentionin' Larry Dillon, I pricks up my ears.

"What! Not the old flannel mouth that's chopped tickets at the 33d-st.
station ever since the L was built?" says I.

"He's been discharged," says Sadie. "Did you know him?"

Did I know Larry? Could anyone live in this burg as long as I have,
wi