"I guess so."

"Now, Mr. Corkey, tell me why Mr. Lockwin went to Owen Sound?"

"I can't do that, nohow; and the less said about it the better. It
would let a big political cat out of the bag."

"Politics! Was that the reason?"

"That's what it _was_, your honor, madam."

"Can you tell me something about my poor husband?"

It is a figure that by its mere presence over-awes Corkey. Of all
women, he admires the heroic mold. The garb is black beyond the man's
conception of mourning. The face is chastened with days of mental
torture. There is an intoxication of grief in the aspect of the woman
that hangs the house in woe.

The mascot slips away from Corkey. The Special Survivor is drifting
into an open sea of sentiment. He feels he shall drown.

Yet the beautiful face seems to take pity on him--seems to read the
heart which beats under that burry, bristly form--seems to reach forth
a hand.

"Exactly as we catched onto Lockwin," thinks the grateful Corkey.

"It comes mighty hard for me, Mrs. Lockwin, for I never expected to be
his friend, nohow. He was an aristocratic duck, and I will say that I