"Mrs. Pitman," he said, "did you ever hear the story of the horse that
wandered out of a village and could not be found?"

I shook my head.

"Well, the best wit of the village failed to locate the horse. But one
day the village idiot walked into town, leading the missing animal by
the bridle. When they asked him how he had done it, he said: 'Well,
I just thought what I'd do if I was a horse, and then I went and did
it.'"

"I see," I said, humoring him.

"You _don't_ see. Now, what are we trying to do?"

"We're trying to find a body. Do you intend to become a corpse?"

He leaned over and tapped on the table between us. "We are trying to
prove a crime. I intend for the time to be the criminal."

He looked so curious, bent forward and glaring at me from under his
bushy eyebrows, with his shoes on his knee--for he had taken them off
to wade to the stairs--and his trousers rolled to his knees, that I
wondered if he was entirely sane. But Mr. Holcombe, eccentric as he
might be, was sane enough.

"Not _really_ a criminal!"

"As really as lies in me. Listen, Mrs. Pitman. I want to put myself