oked at Loreen and Loreen
looked at me, but none of us joined in the mirth, which seemed to me
very ill-timed.

Suddenly Lucetta asked:

"Did they dig up Mr. Trohm's cellar?"

William stopped laughing long enough to say:

"His cellar? Why, it's cemented as hard as an oak floor. No, they didn't
polish their spades in his house, which was another source of
satisfaction to me. Deacon Spear hasn't even that to comfort him. Oh,
how I did enjoy that old fellow's face when they began to root up his
old fungi!"

Lucetta turned away with a certain odd constraint I could not but
notice.

"It's a humiliating day for the lane," said she. "And what is worse,"
she suddenly added, "nothing will ever come of it. It will take more
than a band of police to reach the root of this matter."

I thought her manner odd, and, moving towards her, took her by the hand
with something of a relative's familiarity.

"What makes you say that? Mr. Gryce seems a very capable man."

"Yes, yes, but capability has nothing to do with it. Chance might and
pluck might, but wit and experience not. Otherwise the mystery would
have been settled long ago. I wish I----"

"Well?" Her hand was trembling violently.

"Nothing. I don't know why I have allowed myself to talk on this
subject. Loreen and I once made a compact never to give any opinion upon
it. You see how I have kept it."

She had drawn her hand away and suddenly had become quite composed. I
turned my attention toward Loreen, but she was looking out of the window
and showed no intention of further pursuing the conversation. William
had strolled out.

"Well," said I, "if ever a girl had reason for breaking such a compact
you are certainly that girl. I could never have been as silent as you
have been--that is, if I had any suspicions on so serious a subject.
Why, your own good name is impugned--yours and that of every other
person living in this lane."

"Miss Butterworth," she replied, "I have gone too far. Besides, you have
misunderstood me. I have no more knowledge than anybody else as to the
source of these terrible tragedies. I only know that an almost
superhuman cunning lies at the bottom of so many unaccountable
disappearances, a cunning so great that only a crazy person----"

"Ah," I murmured eagerly, "Mother Jane!"

She did not answer. Instantly I took a resolution.

"Lucetta," said I, "is Deacon Spear a rich man?"

Starting violently, she looked at me amazed.

"If he is, I