"If you mean my house--" I began.

But he had pulled himself together and was more polite when he
answered. "I mean the neighborhood. Your house is all that could be
desired for the money. If we do not have linen sheets and double
cream, we are paying muslin and milk prices."

Either my nose was growing accustomed to the odor, or it was dying
away: I took my foot away from the door. "When did Mrs. Ladley leave?"
I asked.

"This morning, very early. I rowed her to Federal Street."

"You couldn't have had much sleep," I said dryly. For he looked
horrible. There were lines around his eyes, which were red, and his
lips looked dry and cracked.

"She's not in the piece this week at the theater," he said, licking
his lips and looking past me, not at me. "She'll be back by Saturday."

I did not believe him. I do not think he imagined that I did. He shut
the door in my face, and it caught poor Peter by the nose. The dog ran
off howling, but although Mr. Ladley had been as fond of the animal as
it was in his nature to be fond of anything, he paid no attention.
As I started down the hall after him, I saw what Peter had been
carrying--a slipper of Mrs. Ladley's. It was soaked with water;
evidently Peter had found it floating at the foot of the stairs.

Although the idea of murder had not entered my head at that time, the
slipper gave me a turn. I picked it up and looked at it--a black one