said briskly, when he had closed the door, "there's
something wrong here. Perhaps if you tell me, I can help. If I can't,
it will do you good to talk about it. My name's Holcombe, retired
merchant. Apply to First National Bank for references."

"I'm not sure there _is_ anything wrong," I began. "I guess I'm only
nervous, and thinking little things are big ones. There's nothing to
tell."

"Nonsense. I come down the street in my boat. A white-faced gentleman
with a cigarette looks out from a window when I stop at the door, and
ducks back when I glance up. I come in and find a pet dog, obviously
overfed at ordinary times, whining with hunger on the stairs. As
I prepare to feed him, a pale woman comes down, trying to put a
right-hand glove on her left hand, and with her jacket wrong side out.
What am I to think?"

I started and looked at my coat. He was right. And when, as I tried to
take it off, he helped me, and even patted me on the shoulder--what
with his kindness, and the long morning alone, worrying, and the
sleepless night, I began to cry. He had a clean handkerchief in my
hand before I had time to think of one.

"That's it," he said. "It will do you good, only don't make a noise
about it. If it's a husband on the annual flood spree, don't worry,
madam. They always come around in time to whitewash the cellars."

"It isn't a husband," I sniffled.

"Tell me about it," he said. There was something so kindly in his
face, and it was so long since I had had a bit of human sympathy, that
I almost broke down again.

I sat there, with a crowd of children paddling on a raft outside the
window, and Molly Maguire, next door, hauling the morning's milk up in
a pail fastened to a rope, her doorway being too narrow to admit the
milkman's boat, and I told him the whole story.

"Humph!" he exclaimed, when I had finished. "It's curious, but--you
can't prove a murder unless you can produce a body."

"When the river goes down, we'll find the body," I said, shivering.
"It's in the parlor."

"Then why doesn't he try to get away?"

"He is ready to go now. He only went back when your boat came in."

Mr. Holcombe ran to the door, and flinging it open, peered into the
lower hall. He was too late. His boat was gone, tub of liver, pile of
wooden platters and all!

We hurried to the room the Ladleys had occupied. It was empty. From
the window, as we looked out, we could see the boat, almost a square
away. It had stopped where,