"Humph!" he exclaimed, when I had finished. "It's curious, but--you
can't prove a murder unless you can produce a body."

"When the river goes down, we'll find the body," I said, shivering.
"It's in the parlor."

"Then why doesn't he try to get away?"

"He is ready to go now. He only went back when your boat came in."

Mr. Holcombe ran to the door, and flinging it open, peered into the
lower hall. He was too late. His boat was gone, tub of liver, pile of
wooden platters and all!

We hurried to the room the Ladleys had occupied. It was empty. From
the window, as we looked out, we could see the boat, almost a square
away. It had stopped where, the street being higher, a door-step rose
above the flood. On the step was sitting a forlorn yellow puppy. As
we stared, Mr. Ladley stopped the boat, looked back at us, bent over,
placed a piece of liver on a platter, and reached it over to the dog.
Then, rising in the boat, he bowed, with his hat over his heart, in
our direction, sat down calmly, and rowed around the corner out of
sight.

Mr. Holcombe was in a frenzy of rage. He jumped up and down, shaking
his fist out the window after the retreating boat. He ran down the
staircase, only to come back and look out the window again. The police
boat was not in sight, but the Maguire children had worked their raft
around to the street and were under the window. He leaned out and