the last I saw of him for some time.

That Thursday proved to be an exciting day. For late in the afternoon
Terry, digging the mud out of the cellar, came across my missing gray
false front near the coal vault, and brought it up, grinning. And just
before six, Mr. Graves, the detective, rang the bell and then let
himself in. I found him in the lower hall, looking around.

"Well, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "has our friend come back yet?"

"She was no friend of mine."

"Not _she_. Ladley. He'll be out this evening, and he'll probably be
around for his clothes."

I felt my knees waver, as they always did when he was spoken of.

"He may want to stay here," said Mr. Graves. "In fact, I think that's
just what he _will_ want."

"Not here," I protested. "The very thought of him makes me quake."

"If he comes here, better take him in. I want to know where he is."

I tried to say that I wouldn't have him, but the old habit of the ward
asserted itself. From taking a bottle of beer or a slice of pie,
to telling one where one might or might not live, the police were
autocrats in that neighborhood. And, respectable woman that I am, my
neighbors' fears of the front office have infected me.