ch
time in searching for these notices, and then in painfully cutting them
out and pasting them in a book. On those days when there was nothing
about him she felt thwarted, and was liable to sharp remarks on
newspapers in general, and on those of the city in particular.

Then, just as he began to feel that the strike would pass off like
other strikes, and that Doyle and his crowd, having plowed the field for
sedition, would find it planted with healthier grain, he had a talk with
Edith.

She came downstairs for the first time one Wednesday evening early in
July, the scars on her face now only faint red blotches, and he placed
her, a blanket over her knees, in the small parlor. Dan had brought her
down and had made a real effort to be kind, but his suspicion of the
situation made it difficult for him to dissemble, and soon he went out.
Ellen was on the doorstep, and through the open window came the shrieks
of numerous little Wilkinsons wearing out expensive shoe-leather on the
brick pavement.

They sat in the dusk together, Edith very quiet, Willy Cameron talking
with a sort of determined optimism. After a time he realized that she
was not even listening.

"I wish you'd close the window," she said at last. "Those crazy
Wilkinson kids make such a racket. I want to tell you something."

"All right." He closed the window and stood looking down at her. "Are
you sure you want me to hear it?" he asked gravely.

"Yes. It is not about myself. I've been reading the newspapers while
I've been shut away up there, Willy. It kept me from thinking. And if
things are as bad as they say I'd better tell you, even if I get into
trouble doing it. I will, probably. Murder's nothing to them."

"Who are 'them'?"

"You get the police to search the Myers Housecleaning Company, in the
Searing Building."

"Don't you think you'd better tell me more than that? The police will
want something definite to go on."

She hesitated.

"I don't know very much. I met somebody there, once or twice, at night.
And I know there's a telephone hidden in the drawer of the desk in the
back room. I swore not to tell, but that doesn't matter now. Tell them
to examine the safe, too. I don't know what's in it. Dynamite, maybe."

"What makes you think the company is wrong? A hidden telephone isn't
much to go on."

"When a fellow's had a drink or two, he's likely to talk," she said
briefly, and before that sordid picture Willy Cameron was silent. After
a