ther? All these things were
within the realm of possibility, but hardly credible. Braceway might have
known of them, and he might not.

Abrahamson, he remembered, had put it into Braceway's head, against
Braceway's own desire, that the man with the gold tooth and Withers
resembled each other. But nobody believed that. It would be futile to
consider it.

The chief, as if reading his thoughts, gave more information:

"Abrahamson, the loan-shark, came to my office yesterday; wanted to know
where he could reach Braceway by wire. He evidently knew something and
wouldn't tell me. Said he wired yesterday morning to Braceway in
Washington, but the telegraph company reported 'no delivery'--couldn't
locate him. I wonder what the Jew knows."

"It's too much for me." Bristow dismissed the question carelessly, but
immediately flared up peevishly: "What's getting into these fellows? They
act like fools, each of them, Morley and Withers, following Perry's lead
and trying to have themselves arrested! But Braceway--if he wasn't in
Washington, he must be on his way back here. We'll soon have his last say
on the case."

"All the same," said Greenleaf, "if I were in that husband's place, I'd
stay away from here. The talk's too bitter; worse here among the
Manniston Road people than anywhere else."

"Well, what of it?"

"It wouldn't be the first instance of how easy it is for an innocent man
to be--well, hurt."

"Oh, that sort of thing is out of the question, absurd."

"Never mind! I'd stay away. That's what I'd do."

It was almost dark when the chief of police took his departure. Bristow
sat watching the last crimson light fade over the mountains. The dim
electric, a poor excuse for a street lamp, had flashed on in front of
No. 4. The shadows grew deeper and deeper; there was no breeze; the oaks
along the roadside and in the backyards became still, black plumes above
the bungalows.

Manniston Road was wrapped in darkness. The silence was broken, even at
this early hour, only by the distant, faint screech of street-car wheels
against the rails, or the far sound of an automobile horn down in the
town, or the rattle of a sick man's cough on one of the sleeping porches.
There was something uncanny, Bristow thought, in the velvet blackness and
the heavy silence.

He got up and went into the living room, turning on the lights. The
night, the stillness, had affected him. Perhaps, he thought, Withers
after all would do well to give