As he was palpably asleep on his feet, I left him grumbling and went to the telephone.  It proved to be Richey, who had found me by the simple expedient of tracing Alison, and he was jubilant.

“You’ll have to come back,” he said.  “Got a railroad schedule there?”

“I don’t sleep with one in my pocket,” I retorted, “but if you’ll hold the line I’ll call out the window to Johnson.  He’s probably got one."’

“Johnson!” I could hear the laugh with which McKnight comprehended the situation.  He was still chuckling when I came back.

“Train to Richmond at six-thirty A.M.,” I said.  “What time is it now?”

“Four.  Listen, Lollie.  We’ve got him.  Do you hear?  Through the woman at Baltimore.  Then the other woman, the lady of the restaurant”—­he was obviously avoiding names—­“she is playing our cards for us.  No—­I don’t know why, and I don’t care.  But you be at the Incubator to-night at eight o’clock.  If you can’t shake Johnson, bring him, bless him.”

To this day I believe the Sam Forbeses have not recovered from the surprise of my unexpected arrival, my one appearance at dinner in Granger’s clothes, and the note on my dresser which informed them the next morning that I had folded my tents like the Arabs and silently stole away.  For at half after five Johnson and I, the former as uninquisitive as ever, were on our way through the dust to the station, three miles away, and by four that afternoon we were in Washington.  The journey had been uneventful.  Johnson relaxed under the influence of my tobacco, and spoke at some length on the latest improvements in gallows, dilating on the absurdity of cutting out the former free passes to see the affair in operation.  I remember, too, that he mentioned the curious anomaly that permits a man about to be hanged to eat a hearty meal.  I did not enjoy my dinner that night.

Before we got into Washington I had made an arrangement with Johnson to surrender myself at two the following afternoon.  Also, I had wired to Alison, asking her if she would carry out the contract she had made.  The detective saw me home, and left me there.  Mrs. Klopton received me with dignified reserve.  The very tone in which she asked me when I would dine told me that something was wrong.

“Now—­what is it, Mrs. Klopton?” I demanded finally, when she had informed me, in a patient and long-suffering tone, that she felt worn out and thought she needed a rest.

“When I lived with Mr. Justice Springer,” she began acidly, her mending-basket in her hands, “it was an orderly, well-conducted household.  You can ask any of the neighbors.  Meals were cooked and, what’s more, they were eaten; there was none of this ’here one day and gone the next’ business.”

“Nonsense,” I observed.  “You’re tired, that’s all, Mrs. Klopton.  And I wish you would go out; I want to bathe.”

“That’s not all,” she said with dignity, from the doorway.  “Women coming and going here, women whose shoes I am not fit—­I mean, women who are not fit to touch my shoes—­coming here as insolent as you please, and asking for you.”