"You, too!" he said, looking at me with what I suppose he meant to be
a reproachful look. But he could no more put an expression of that
sort in his eyes than a fish could. "I suppose, then, there is no use
asking if I may have my old room? The front room. I won't need two."

I didn't want him, and he must have seen it. But I took him. "You may
have it, as far as I'm concerned," I said. "But you'll have to let the
paper-hanger in to-morrow."

"Assuredly." He came into the hall and stood looking around him, and I
fancied he drew a breath of relief. "It isn't much yet," he said, "but
it's better to look at than six feet of muddy water."

"Or than stone walls," I said.

He looked at me and smiled. "Or than stone walls," he repeated,
bowing, and went into his room.

So I had him again, and if I gave him only the dull knives, and locked
up the bread-knife the moment I had finished with it, who can blame
me? I took all the precaution I could think of: had Terry put an extra
bolt on every door, and hid the rat poison and the carbolic acid in
the cellar.

Peter would not go near him. He hobbled around on his three legs, with
the splint beating a sort of tattoo on the floor, but he stayed back
in the kitchen with me, or in the yard.

It was Sunday night or early Monday morning that Jennie Brice
disappeared. On Thursday evening, her husband came back. On Friday the