ge that night.

After luncheon Mr. Jamieson suggested that I go with him to Richfield,
and I consented.

"I am inclined to place more faith in Doctor Stewart's story," he said,
"since I found that scrap in old Thomas' pocket. It bears out the
statement that the woman with the child, and the woman who quarreled
with Armstrong, are the same. It looks as if Thomas had stumbled on to
some affair which was more or less discreditable to the dead man, and,
with a certain loyalty to the family, had kept it to himself. Then,
you see, your story about the woman at the card-room window begins to
mean something. It is the nearest approach to anything tangible that
we have had yet."

Warner took us to Richfield in the car. It was about twenty-five miles
by railroad, but by taking a series of atrociously rough short cuts we
got there very quickly. It was a pretty little town, on the river, and
back on the hill I could see the Mortons' big country house, where
Halsey and Gertrude had been staying until the night of the murder.

Elm Street was almost the only street, and number fourteen was easily
found. It was a small white house, dilapidated without having gained
anything picturesque, with a low window and a porch only a foot or so
above the bit of a lawn. There was a baby-carriage in the path, and
from a swing at the side came the sound of conflict. Three small
children were disputing vociferously, and a faded young woman with a
kindly face was trying to hush the clamor. When she saw us she untied
her gingham apron and came around to the porch.

"Good afternoon," I said. Jamieson lifted his hat, without speaking.
"I came to inquire about a child named Lucien Wallace."

"I am glad you have come," she said. "In spite of the other children,
I think the little fellow is lonely. We thought perhaps his mother
would be here to-day."

Mr. Jamieson stepped forward.

"You are Mrs. Tate?" I wondered how the detective knew.

"Yes, sir."

"Mrs. Tate, we want to make some inquiries. Perhaps in the house--"

"Come right in," she said hospitably. And soon we were in the little
shabby parlor, exactly like a thousand of its prototypes. Mrs. Tate sat
uneasily, her hands folded in her lap.

"How long has Lucien been here?" Mr. Jamieson asked.

"Since a week ago last Friday. His mother paid one week's board in
advance; the other has not been paid."

"Was he ill when he came?"

"No, sir, not what you'd call sick. He wa