Mr. Howell poled his boat to the front door, and sitting down,
prepared to row out.

"You are warned, Mrs. Pitman," he called to me. "If he doesn't find a
body to fit the clues, he's quite capable of making one to fill the
demand."

"Horn--" said Mr. Holcombe, looking at the slip again. "The tail of
the 'n' is torn off--evidently only part of a word. Hornet, Horning,
Horner--Mrs. Pitman, will you go with me to the police station?"

I was more than anxious to go. In fact, I could not bear the idea of
staying alone in the house, with heaven only knows what concealed
in the depths of that muddy flood. I got on my wraps again, and Mr.
Holcombe rowed me out. Peter plunged into the water to follow, and had
to be sent back. He sat on the lower step and whined. Mr. Holcombe
threw him another piece of liver, but he did not touch it.

We rowed to the corner of Robinson Street and Federal--it was before
Federal Street was raised above the flood level--and left the boat in
charge of a boy there. And we walked to the police station. On the way
Mr. Holcombe questioned me closely about the events of the morning,
and I recalled the incident of the burned pillow-slip. He made a note
of it at once, and grew very thoughtful.

He left me, however, at the police station. "I'd rather not appear in
this, Mrs. Pitman," he said apologetically, "and I think better along
my own lines. Not that I have anything against the police; they've
done some splendid work. But this case takes imagination, and the