e walked back to the
barn, and I showed him the piece of broken halter still tied there.

He surveyed it without comment, but on the way back to the house he
said: "If the village is lined up as you say it is, I suppose it is
useless to interview the harness-maker. He has probably repaired that
strap, or sold a new one, to whoever--It would be a nice clue to follow
up."

"I am not doing detective work," I said shortly. "I am trying to help
some one who is dying of anxiety and terror."

He nodded. "I get you," he said. But his tone was not flippant. "The
fact is, of course, that the early theory won't hold. There has been a
crime, and the little old lady did not commit it. But suppose you find
out who did it. How is that going to help her?"

"I don't know, Martin," I said, in a sort of desperation. "But I have
the most curious feeling that she is depending on me. The way she spoke
the day I saw her, and her eyes and everything; I know you think it
nonsense," I finished lamely.

"I think you'd better give up the place and go back to town," he said.
But I saw that he watched me carefully, and when, at last he got up to
go, he put a hand on my shoulder.

"I think you are right, after all," he said. "There are a good many
things that can't be reasoned out with any logic we have, but that are
true, nevertheless. We call it intuition, but it's really subconscious
intelligence. Stay, by all means, if you feel you should."

In the doorway he said: "Remember this, Miss Agnes. Both a crime of
violence and a confession like the one in your hand are the products of
impulse. They are not, either of them, premeditated. They are not
the work, then, of a calculating or cautious nature. Look for a big,
emotional type."

It was a day or two after that that I made my visit to Miss Emily. I had
stopped once before, to be told with an air of finality that the invalid
was asleep. On this occasion I took with me a basket of fruit. I had
half expected a refusal, but I was admitted.

The Bullard girl was with Miss Emily. She had, I think, been kneeling
beside the bed, and her eyes were red and swollen. But Miss Emily
herself was as cool, as dainty and starched and fragile as ever. More
so, I thought. She was thinner, and although it was a warm August day,
a white silk shawl was wrapped around her shoulders and fastened with an
amethyst brooch. In my clasp her thin hand felt hot and dry.

"I have been waiting for you," she said simply