"What I'd sye to that, Mr. Rash, is that it's as good as a legal doc.u.ment. If any young lydy what wrote that letter was to bring a haction for breach, this 'ere pyper'd nyle 'er."

"So where am I now?"

"Free as a lark, Mr. Rash. One young lydy 'as turned you down, and the other 'as gone to the bad for you; so if you was to begin agyne with a third you'd 'ave a clean sheet."

He groaned aloud. "Ah, go to ----"

But without stating the place to which Steptoe was to go he marched out of the room, and back to his dressing upstairs.

More dispa.s.sionate was the early morning scene in the little bas.e.m.e.nt eating house in which the stunted Hebrew maid of Polish culture was serving breakfast to two gentlemen who had plainly met by appointment. Beside the one was an oblong packet, of which some of the contents, half displayed, had the opulent engraved decorations of stock certificates.

The other gentleman, resembling an operatic brigand a little the worse for wear, was saying with conviction: "Oil! Don't talk to me! No, sir!

There's enough oil in Milligan Center alone to run every car in Europe and America at this present time; while if you include North Milligan, where it's beginnin' to shoot like the Old Faithful geyser----"

"Awful obliged to you, Judson," the other took up, humbly. "I thought that bunch o' nuts 'd never----"

"So did I, Gorry. I've sweated blood over this job all winter. Queer the way men are made. Now you'd hardly believe the work I've had to show that lot of boneheads that because a guy's a detective in one line, he ain't a detective in every line. Homicide, I said, was Gorry Larrabin's specialty, and where there's no homicide he's no more a detective than a busted rubber tire."

"You've said it," Gorry corroborated, earnestly. "One of the cussed things about detectin' is that fellas gets afraid of you. Think because you're keepin' up your end you must be down on every little thing, and that you ain't a sport."

"Must be hard," Judson said, sympathetically.

"I'll tell you it's hard. Lots of fun I'd like to be let in on--but you're kept outside."

The drawbacks of the detective profession not being what Judson chiefly had on his mind he allowed the subject to drop. An interval of silence for the consumption of a plateful of golden toasties permitted Gorry to begin again reminiscently.

"By the way, Judson, do you remember that about six months ago you was chewin' over that girl of yours, and what had become of her?"

To himself Judson said: "That's the talk; now we're comin' to business." Aloud he made it: "Why, yes. Seems to me I do. She's been gone so long I'd almost forgot her."

"Well, what d'ye know? Last night--lemme see, was it last night?--no, night before last--I kind o' got wind of her."

"Heaven's sake!"

"Guy I know was comin' through East Sixty-seventh Street, and there was my lady, dressed to beat the band, leadin' one of them little toy dogs, and talkin' to a swell toff that lives in one of them houses.

Got the number here in my pocket-book."

While he was searching his pocket-book Judson asked, breathlessly: "Couldn't be no mistake?"

"It's nix on mistakes. That guy don't make 'em. Surest thing on the force. He said, 'Good afternoon, Miss Gravely'; and she said, 'Good afternoon' back to him--just like that. The guy walked on and turned a corner; but when he peeped back, there was the couple goin' into the house just like husband and wife. What d'ye know?"

"What do I know? I know I'll spill his claret for him before the week is out."

"Ah, here it is! Knew I had that address on me somewheres." He handed the sc.r.a.p of paper across the table. "That's his name and number.

Seems to me you may have a good thing there, Judson, if you know how to work it."

In another early morning scene the ermine was cleaning her nest; and you know how fastidious she is supposed to be as to personal spotlessness. The ermine in question did not belie her reputation, as you would have seen by a glance at the three or four rooms which made up what she called her "flat."

Nothing was ever whiter than the wood-work of the "flat" and its furnishings. Nothing was ever whiter than the little lady's dress. The hair was white, and even the complexion, the one like silver, the other like the camelia. Having breakfasted from white dishes placed on a white napkin, she was busy with a carpet-sweeper sweeping up possible crumbs. In an interval of the carpet-sweeper's buzz she heard the telephone.

"h.e.l.lo!" The male voice was commanding.

"Yes?" The response was sweetly precise.

"Is this Red Point 3284-W?"

"It is."

"Can I speak to Miss Henrietta Towell?"

"This is Miss Henrietta Towell."

"This is the Brooklyn Bridge Emergency Hospital. Do you know a girl named Let.i.tia Rashleigh?"

There was a second's hesitation. "I was once a lady's maid to a lady whose maiden name was Rashleigh. I think there may be a connection somewhere."

"She was found unconscious on a car in the subway last night and brought in here."

"And has she mentioned me?"

"She hasn't mentioned anyone since she came to; but we find your address on a paper in her pocket."

"That seems singular, but I expect there's a purpose behind it. Is that everything she had?"

"No; she had forty-five cents and a thimble."

"A thimble! Just an ordinary thimble."

"Yes, an ordinary thimble, except that it has initials on the edge.

'H.T. from H.S.' Does that mean anything to you?"

"Yes; that means something to me. May I ask how to reach the hospital?"

This being explained Miss Towell promised to appear without delay, begging that in the meantime everything be done for Miss Rashleigh's comfort.

She was not perturbed. She was not surprised. She did not wonder who Let.i.tia Rashleigh could be, or why her address should be found in the girl's pocket. She was as quiet and serene as if such incidents belonged to every day's work.

Dressed for the street she was all in black. A mantua covered with bugles and braid dropped from her shoulders, while a bonnet which rose to a pointed arch above her brow, and allowed the silver k.n.o.b of her hair to escape behind, gave her a late nineteenth century dignity.

Before leaving the house she took two volumes from her shelves--read first in one, then in the other--sat pensive for a while, with head bent and eyes shaded--after which she replaced her books, turned the key in her door, and set forth for Brooklyn Bridge.

Chapter XXIII