ived and has a man in his
room."

Mr. Holcombe came down a moment after, with his face beaming.

"I think we've got him, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "The jury won't even go
out of the box."

But further than that he would not explain. He said he had a witness
locked in his room, and he'd be glad of supper for him, as they'd both
come a long ways. And he went out and bought some oysters and a bottle
or two of beer. But as far as I know, he kept him locked up all that
night in the second-story front room. I don't think the man knew he
was a prisoner. I went in to turn down the bed, and he was sitting
by the window, reading the evening paper's account of the trial--an
elderly gentleman, rather professional-looking.

Mr. Holcombe slept on the upper landing of the hall that night, rolled
in a blanket--not that I think his witness even thought of escaping,
but the little man was taking no chances.

At eight o'clock that night the bell rang. It was Mr. Howell. I
admitted him myself, and he followed me back to the dining-room. I had
not seen him for several weeks, and the change in him startled me. He
was dressed carefully, but his eyes were sunken in his head, and he
looked as if he had not slept for days.

Mr. Reynolds had gone up-stairs, not finding me socially inclined.

"You haven't been sick, Mr. Howell, have you?" I asked.

"Oh, no, I'm well enough, I've been traveling about. Those infernal
sleeping-cars--"

His voice trailed off, and I saw him looking at my mother's picture,
with the jonquils beneath.

"That's curious!" he said, going closer. "It--it looks almost like
Lida Harvey."

"My mother," I said simply.

"Have you seen her lately?"

"My mother?" I asked, startled.

"No, Lida."

"I saw her a few days ago."

"Here?"

"Yes. She came here, Mr. Howell, two weeks ago. She looks badly--as if
she is worrying."

"Not--about me?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, about you. What possessed you to go away as you did? When
my--bro--when her uncle accused you of something, you ran away,
instead of facing things like a man."

"I was trying to find the one person who could clear me, Mrs. Pitman."
He sat back, with his eyes closed; he looked ill enough to be in bed.

"And you succeeded?"

"No."

I thought perhaps he had not been eating and I offered him food, as
I had once before. But he refused it, with the ghost of his boyish
smile.

"I'm hungry, but it's not food I want. I want to see _her_," he said.

I