“The windows are covered with mosquito netting, nailed on.  The mister blamed it on the children, and it might have been Obadiah.  He’s the quiet kind, and you never know what he’s about.”

“He’s about to strangle, isn’t he,” McKnight remarked lazily, “or is that Obadiah?”

Mrs. Carter picked the boy up and inverted him, talking amiably all the time.  “He’s always doing it,” she said, giving him a shake.  “Whenever we miss anything we look to see if Obadiah’s black in the face.”  She gave him another shake, and the quarter I had given him shot out as if blown from a gun.  Then we prepared to go back to the station.

From where I stood I could look into the cheery farm kitchen, where Alison West and I had eaten our al fresco breakfast.  I looked at the table with mixed emotions, and then, gradually, the meaning of something on it penetrated my mind.  Still in its papers, evidently just opened, was a hat box, and protruding over the edge of the box was a streamer of vivid green ribbon.

On the plea that I wished to ask Mrs. Carter a few more questions, I let the others go on.  I watched them down the flagstone walk; saw McKnight stop and examine the gate-posts and saw, too, the quick glance he threw back at the house.  Then I turned to Mrs. Carter.

“I would like to speak to the young lady up-stairs,” I said.

She threw up her hands with a quick gesture of surrender.  “I’ve done all I could,” she exclaimed.  “She won’t like it very well, but—­she’s in the room over the parlor.”

I went eagerly up the ladder-like stairs, to the rag-carpeted hall.  Two doors were open, showing interiors of four poster beds and high bureaus.  The door of the room over the parlor was almost closed.  I hesitated in the hallway:  after all, what right had I to intrude on her?  But she settled my difficulty by throwing open the door and facing me.

“I—­I beg your pardon, Miss West,” I stammered.  “It has just occurred to me that I am unpardonably rude.  I saw the hat down-stairs and I—­I guessed—­”

“The hat!” she said.  “I might have known.  Does Richey know I am here?”

“I don’t think so.”  I turned to go down the stairs again.  Then I halted.  “The fact is,” I said, in an attempt at justification, “I’m in rather a mess these days, and I’m apt to do irresponsible things.  It is not impossible that I shall be arrested, in a day or so, for the murder of Simon Harrington.”

She drew her breath in sharply.  “Murder!” she echoed.  “Then they have found you after all!”

“I don’t regard it as anything more than—­er—­inconvenient,” I lied.  “They can’t convict me, you know.  Almost all the witnesses are dead.”

She was not deceived for a moment.  She came over to me and stood, both hands on the rail of the stair.  “I know just how grave it is,” she said quietly.  “My grandfather will not leave one stone unturned, and he can be terrible—­terrible.  But”—­she looked directly into my eyes as I stood below her on the stairs—­“the time may come —­soon—­when I can help you.  I’m afraid I shall not want to; I’m a dreadful coward, Mr. Blakeley.  But—­I will.”  She tried to smile.