"We can go into the back room," I heard him say, and he closed the
door. When he opened it again, the room was empty. I called in Terry,
the Irishman who does odd jobs for me now and then, and we both got to
work at the tacks in the carpet, Terry working by the window, and I by
the door into the back parlor, which the Ladleys used as a bedroom.

That was how I happened to hear what I afterward told the police.

Some one--a man, but not Mr. Ladley--was talking. Mrs. Ladley broke
in: "I won't do it!" she said flatly. "Why should I help him? He
doesn't help me. He loafs here all day, smoking and sleeping, and sits
up all night, drinking and keeping me awake."

The voice went on again, as if in reply to this, and I heard a rattle
of glasses, as if they were pouring drinks. They always had whisky,
even when they were behind with their board.

"That's all very well," Mrs. Ladley said. I could always hear her, she
having a theatrical sort of voice--one that carries. "But what about
the prying she-devil that runs the house?"

"Hush, for God's sake!" broke in Mr. Ladley, and after that they spoke
in whispers. Even with my ear against the panel, I could not catch a
word.

The men came just then to move the piano, and by the time we had taken
it and the furniture up-stairs, the water was over the kitchen floor,
and creeping forward into the hall. I had never seen the river come up
so fast. By noon the yard was full of floating ice, and at three that
afternoon the police skiff was on the front street, and I was wading