maudlin man, apparently "Sissie"
Larsen. And they asked questions. They cornered Harry, they shot
their queries at him one after another. But Harry was adamant.

"I ain't got anything to sye! And there's an end to it!"

Then, forcing his way past them, he crossed the street and went up the
worn steps to the little office of Randolph P. Farrell, with his
grinning smile and his horn-rimmed glasses, there to tell what he
knew,--and to ask advice. And with the information the happy-go-lucky
look faded, while Fairchild, entering behind Harry, heard a verdict
which momentarily seemed to stop his heart.

"It means, Harry, that you were accessory to a crime--if this was a
murder. You knew that something had happened. You helped without
asking questions. And if it can be proved a murder--well," and he
drummed on his desk with the end of his pencil--"there 's no statute of
limitations when the end of a human life is concerned!"

Only a moment Harry hesitated. Then:

"I 'll tell the truth--if they ask me."

"When?" The lawyer was bending forward.

"At the inquest. Ain't that what you call it?"

"You'll tell nothing. Understand? You'll tell nothing, other than
that you, with Robert Fairchild, found that skeleton. An inquest is
n't a trial. And that can't come without knowledge and evidence that
this man was murdered. So, remember--you tell the coroner's jury that
you found this body and nothing more!"

"But--"

"It's a case for the grand jury after that, to study the findings of
the coroner's jury and to sift out what evidence comes to it."

"You mean--" This time it was Fairchild cutting in--"that if the
coroner's jury cannot find evidence that this man was murdered, or
something more than mere supposition to base a charge on--there 'll be
no trouble for Harry?"

"It's very improbable. So tell what happened on this day of this year
of our Lord and nothing more! You people almost had me scared myself
for a minute. Now, get out of here and let a legal light shine without
any more clouds for a few minutes."

They departed then and traveled down the stairs with far more spring in
their step than when they had entered. Late that night, as they were
engaged at their usual occupation of relating the varied happenings of
the day to Mother Howard, there came a knock at the door.
Instinctively, Fairchild bent toward her:

"Your name 's out of this--as long as possible."

She smiled in her mothering,