to look as if they were being pushed out from
behind, and I ceased to waken at night and listen for untoward signs.

Willie telephoned daily. He was frankly uneasy about my remaining there.
"You know something that somebody resents your knowing," he said, a day
or two after the night visitor. "It may become very uncomfortable for
you."

And, after a day or two, I began to feel that it was being made
uncomfortable for me. I am a social being; I like people. In the city
my neighborly instincts have died of a sort of brick wall apathy, but in
the country it comes to life again. The instinct of gregariousness is as
old as the first hamlets, I daresay, when prehistoric man ceased to live
in trees, and banded together for protection from the wild beasts that
walked the earth.

The village became unfriendly. It was almost a matter of a night. One
day the postmistress leaned on the shelf at her window and chatted with
me. The next she passed out my letters with hardly a glance. Mrs. Graves
did not see me at early communion on Sunday morning. The hackman was
busy when I called him. It was intangible, a matter of omission, not
commission. The doctor's wife, who had asked me to tea, called up and
regretted that she must go to the city that day.

I sat down then and took stock of things. Did the village believe that
Miss Emily must be saved from me? Did the village know the story I
was trying to learn, and was it determined I should never find out the
truth? And, if this were so, was the village right or was I? They
would save Miss Emily by concealment, while I felt that concealment had
failed, and that only the truth would do. Did the village know, or only
suspect? Or was it not the village at all, but one or two people who
were determined to drive me away?

My theories were rudely disturbed shortly after that by a visit from
Martin Sprague. I fancied that Willie had sent him, but he evaded my
question.

"I'd like another look at that slip of paper," he said. "Where do you
keep it, by the way?"

"In a safe place," I replied non-committally, and he laughed. The truth
was that I had taken out the removable inner sole of a slipper and had
placed it underneath, an excellent hiding-place, but one I did not care
to confide to him. When I had brought it downstairs, he read it over
again carefully, and then sat back with it in his hand.

"Now tell me about everything," he said.

I did, while he listened attentively. Afterward w