Mr. Holcombe was on the bed, fully dressed. He had a wet towel tied
around his head, and his face looked swollen and puffy. He opened one
eye and looked at me.

"What a night!" he groaned.

"What happened! What did you find?"

He groaned again. "Find!" he said. "Nothing, except that there was
something wrong with that whisky. It poisoned me. I haven't been out
of the house!"

So for that day, at least, Mr. Ladley became Mr. Holcombe again,
and as such accepted ice in quantities, a mustard plaster over his
stomach, and considerable nursing. By evening he was better, but
although he clearly intended to stay on, he said nothing about
changing his identity again, and I was glad enough. The very name of
Ladley was horrible to me.

The river went down almost entirely that day, although there was still
considerable water in the cellars. It takes time to get rid of that.
The lower floors showed nothing suspicious. The papers were ruined, of
course, the doors warped and sprung, and the floors coated with mud
and debris. Terry came in the afternoon, and together we hung the
dining-room rug out to dry in the sun.

As I was coming in, I looked over at the Maguire yard. Molly Maguire
was there, and all her children around her, gaping. Molly was hanging
out to dry a sodden fur coat, that had once been striped, brown and