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.
“All right, Mr. Graves,” I said.
He pushed the parlor door open and looked in, whistling.
“This is the place, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But it was up-stairs that he—”
“I see. Tall woman, Mrs. Ladley?”
“Tall and blond. Very airy in her manner.”
He nodded and still stood looking in and whistling.
“Never heard her speak of a town named Horner,
did you?”
“Horner? No.”
“I see.” He turned and wandered out
again into the hall, still whistling. At the
door, however, he stopped and turned. “Look
anything like this?” he asked, and held out
one of his hands, with a small kodak picture on the
palm.
It was a snap-shot of a children’s frolic in
a village street, with some onlookers in the background.
Around one of the heads had been drawn a circle in
pencil. I took it to the gas-jet and looked at
it closely. It was a tall woman with a hat on,
not unlike Jennie Brice. She was looking over
the crowd, and I could see only her face, and that
in shadow. I shook my head.
“I thought not,” he said. “We
have a lot of stage pictures of her, but what with
false hair and their being retouched beyond recognition,
they don’t amount to much.” He started
out, and stopped on the door-step to light a cigar.
“Take him on if he comes,” he said.
“And keep your eyes open. Feed him well,
and he won’t kill you!”
I had plenty to think of when I was cooking Mr. Reynolds’
supper: the chance that I might have Mr. Ladley
again, and the woman at Horner. For it had come
to me like a flash, as Mr. Graves left, that the “Horn—”
on the paper slip might have been “Horner.”
After all, there was nothing sensational about Mr.
Ladley’s return. He came at eight o’clock
that night, fresh-shaved and with his hair cut, and,
although he had a latch-key, he rang the door-bell.
I knew his ring, and I thought it no harm to carry
an old razor of Mr. Pitman’s with the blade
open and folded back on the handle, the way the colored
people use them, in my left hand.
But I saw at once that he meant no mischief.
“Good evening,” he said, and put out his
hand. I jumped back, until I saw there was nothing
in it and that he only meant to shake hands. I
didn’t do it; I might have to take him in, and
make his bed, and cook his meals, but I did not have
to shake hands with him.
