The newspapers were full of the Ladley case, with its curious solution and many surprises.  It was considered unique in many ways.  Mr. Pitman had always read all the murder trials, and used to talk about the corpus delicti and writs of habeas corpus ­corpus being the legal way, I believe, of spelling corpse.  But I came out of the Ladley trial ­for it came to trial ultimately ­with only one point of law that I was sure of:  that was, that it is mighty hard to prove a man a murderer unless you can show what he killed.

And that was the weakness in the Ladley case.  There was a body, but it could not be identified.

The police held Mr. Ladley for a day or two, and then, nothing appearing, they let him go.  Mr. Holcombe, who was still occupying the second floor front, almost wept with rage and despair when he read the news in the papers.  He was still working on the case, in his curious way, wandering along the wharves at night, and writing letters all over the country to learn about Philip Ladley’s previous life, and his wife’s.  But he did not seem to get anywhere.

The newspapers had been full of the Jennie Brice disappearance.  For disappearance it proved to be.  So far as could be learned, she had not left the city that night, or since, and as she was a striking-looking woman, very blond, as I have said, with a full voice and a languid manner, she could hardly have taken refuge anywhere without being discovered.  The morning after her disappearance a young woman, tall like Jennie Brice and fair, had been seen in the Union Station.  But as she was accompanied by a young man, who bought her magazines and papers, and bade her an excited farewell, sending his love to various members of a family, and promising to feed the canary, this was not seriously considered.  A sort of general alarm went over the country.  When she was younger she had been pretty well known at the Broadway theaters in New York.  One way or another, the Liberty Theater got a lot of free advertising from the case, and I believe Miss Hope’s salary was raised.

The police communicated with Jennie Brice’s people ­she had a sister in Olean, New York, but she had not heard from her.  The sister wrote ­I heard later ­that Jennie had been unhappy with Philip Ladley, and afraid he would kill her.  And Miss Hope told the same story.  But ­there was no corpus, as the lawyers say, and finally the police had to free Mr. Ladley.

Beyond making an attempt to get bail, and failing, he had done nothing.  Asked about his wife, he merely shrugged his shoulders and said she had left him, and would turn up all right.  He was unconcerned:  smoked cigarettes all day, ate and slept well, and looked better since he had had nothing to drink.  And two or three days after the arrest, he sent for the manuscript of his play.

Mr. Howell came for it on the Thursday of that week.

I was on my knees scrubbing the parlor floor, when he rang the bell.  I let him in, and it seemed to me that he looked tired and pale.

“Well, Mrs. Pitman,” he said, smiling, “what did you find in the cellar when the water went down?”

“I’m glad to say that I didn’t find what I feared, Mr. Howell.”

“Not even the onyx clock?”

“Not even the clock,” I replied.  “And I feel as if I’d lost a friend.  A clock is a lot of company.”

“Do you know what I think?” he said, looking at me closely.  “I think you put that clock away yourself, in the excitement, and have forgotten all about it.”

“Nonsense.”

“Think hard.”  He was very much in earnest.  “You knew the water was rising and the Ladleys would have to be moved up to the second floor front, where the clock stood.  You went in there and looked around to see if the room was ready, and you saw the clock.  And knowing that the Ladleys quarreled now and then, and were apt to throw things ­”

“Nothing but a soap-dish, and that only once.”

“ ­you took the clock to the attic and put it, say, in an old trunk.”

“I did nothing of the sort.  I went in, as you say, and I put up an old splasher, because of the way he throws ink about.  Then I wound the clock, put the key under it, and went out.”

“And the key is gone, too!” he said thoughtfully.  “I wish I could find that clock, Mrs. Pitman.”

“So do I.”

“Ladley went out Sunday afternoon about three, didn’t he ­and got back at five?”

I turned and looked at him.  “Yes, Mr. Howell,” I said.  “Perhaps you know something about that.”

“I?” He changed color.  Twenty years of dunning boarders has made me pretty sharp at reading faces, and he looked as uncomfortable as if he owed me money.  “I!” I knew then that I had been right about the voice.  It had been his.

“You!” I retorted.  “You were here Sunday morning and spent some time with the Ladleys.  I am the old she-devil.  I notice you didn’t tell your friend, Mr. Holcombe, about having been here on Sunday.”

He was quick to recover.  “I’ll tell you all about it, Mrs. Pitman,” he said smilingly.  “You see, all my life, I have wished for an onyx clock.  It has been my ambition, my Great Desire.  Leaving the house that Sunday morning, and hearing the ticking of the clock up-stairs, I recognized that it was an onyx clock, clambered from my boat through an upper window, and so reached it.  The clock showed fight, but after stunning it with a chair ­”

“Exactly!” I said.  “Then the thing Mrs. Ladley said she would not do was probably to wind the clock?”

He dropped his bantering manner at once.  “Mrs. Pitman,” he said, “I don’t know what you heard or did not hear.  But I want you to give me a little time before you tell anybody that I was here that Sunday morning.  And, in return, I’ll find your clock.”

I hesitated, but however put out he was, he didn’t look like a criminal.  Besides, he was a friend of my niece’s, and blood is thicker even than flood-water.

“There was nothing wrong about my being here,” he went on, “but ­I don’t want it known.  Don’t spoil a good story, Mrs. Pitman.”

I did not quite understand that, although those who followed the trial carefully may do so.  Poor Mr. Howell!  I am sure he believed that it was only a good story.  He got the description of my onyx clock and wrote it down, and I gave him the manuscript for Mr. Ladley.  That was the last I saw of him for some time.

That Thursday proved to be an exciting day.  For late in the afternoon Terry, digging the mud out of the cellar, came across my missing gray false front near the coal vault, and brought it up, grinning.  And just before six, Mr. Graves, the detective, rang the bell and then let himself in.  I found him in the lower hall, looking around.

“Well, Mrs. Pitman,” he said, “has our friend come back yet?”

“She was no friend of mine.”

“Not she.  Ladley.  He’ll be out this evening, and he’ll probably be around for his clothes.”

I felt my knees waver, as they always did when he was spoken of.

“He may want to stay here,” said Mr. Graves.  “In fact, I think that’s just what he will want.”

“Not here,” I protested.  “The very thought of him makes me quake.”

“If he comes here, better take him in.  I want to know where he is.”

I tried to say that I wouldn’t have him, but the old habit of the ward asserted itself.  From taking a bottle of beer or a slice of pie, to telling one where one might or might not live, the police were autocrats in that neighborhood.  And, respectable woman that I am, my neighbors’ fears of the front office have infected me.

“All right, Mr. Graves,” I said.

He pushed the parlor door open and looked in, whistling.  “This is the place, isn’t it?”

“Yes.  But it was up-stairs that he ­”

“I see.  Tall woman, Mrs. Ladley?”

“Tall and blond.  Very airy in her manner.”

He nodded and still stood looking in and whistling.  “Never heard her speak of a town named Horner, did you?”

“Horner?  No.”

“I see.”  He turned and wandered out again into the hall, still whistling.  At the door, however, he stopped and turned.  “Look anything like this?” he asked, and held out one of his hands, with a small kodak picture on the palm.

It was a snap-shot of a children’s frolic in a village street, with some onlookers in the background.  Around one of the heads had been drawn a circle in pencil.  I took it to the gas-jet and looked at it closely.  It was a tall woman with a hat on, not unlike Jennie Brice.  She was looking over the crowd, and I could see only her face, and that in shadow.  I shook my head.

“I thought not,” he said.  “We have a lot of stage pictures of her, but what with false hair and their being retouched beyond recognition, they don’t amount to much.”  He started out, and stopped on the door-step to light a cigar.

“Take him on if he comes,” he said.  “And keep your eyes open.  Feed him well, and he won’t kill you!”

I had plenty to think of when I was cooking Mr. Reynolds’ supper:  the chance that I might have Mr. Ladley again, and the woman at Horner.  For it had come to me like a flash, as Mr. Graves left, that the “Horn ­” on the paper slip might have been “Horner.”