a single kerosene lamp gave out a feeble, rather ghastly light. The
tall Bacon followed, the upper part of his person enveloped in the
blanket Putnam Jones had hastily snatched from the mattress before it
was slipped under the dying man. Several of the women of the house,
including the wife of the landlord, clogged the little entrance hall,
chattering in hushed undertones.

"Would you like a little brandy?" inquired Barnes, as she sat down
limply in the chair he pulled out for her. "I have a flask upstairs in
my--"

"I never touch it," she said. "I'm all right. My legs wabble a little
but--Sit down, Mr. Barnes. I've got something to say to you and I'd
better say it now, because it may come in pretty handy for you later
on. Don't let those women come in here, Dilly."

Barnes drew a chair close beside her. Bacon, with scant regard for
elegance, seated himself on the edge of the table and bent an ear.

"It's all rot about that man Roon being here to look for a place for
his daughter." She spoke rapidly and cautiously. "I don't know whether
Jones knows, but that certainly wasn't what he was here for. The young
fellow in there was a sort of secretary. Roon had a room at the other
end of the hall from yours, on the corner, facing the road and also
looking toward the cross-roads. Young Paul had the next room, with a
door between. I was supposed to make up their rooms after they'd gone
out in the forenoon for a horseback ride. I kept out of their sight,
because I knew they were the kind of men who would laugh at me. They
couldn't understand, and, of course, I couldn't explain. Yesterday
morning I found a sort of map on the floor under young Paul's