“He's in it somewhere, or the devil is, but I don't know where. He's an awful man. He's everywhere at once. He's--oh Lord! What was that?” I had become infected with her nervousness, and at a cracking or creaking sound turned around with half an expectation of seeing Doddridge Knapp himself coming in the door. There was no one there--nothing to be seen but the flickering shadows, and no sound broke the stillness as we listened. “It's nothing,” I said. “I reckon I ain't got no call to be scared at any crackings in this old house,” said Mother Borton with a nervous giggle. “I've hearn 'em long enough. But that man's name gives me the shivers.” “What did he ever do to you?” I asked with some curiosity. “He never did nothing,” she said, “but I hearn tell dreadful things that's gone on of nights,--how Doddridge Knapp or his ghost was seen killing a Chinaman over at North Beach, while Doddridge Knapp or his ghost,--whichever was the other one,--was speaking at a meeting, at the Pavilion. And I hearn of his drinkin' blood--” “Nonsense!” said I; “where did you get such stories?” “Well, they're told me for true, and by ones I believe,” she said stoutly. “Oh, there's queer things goes on. Doddridge Knapp or the devil, it's all one. But it's ill saying things of them that can be in two places at once.” And the old dame looked nervously about her. “They've hushed things up in the papers, and fixed the police, but people have tongues.” I wondered what mystification had given rise to these absurd reports, but there was nothing to be gained by pursuing them. The killing of the Chinaman might have been something to my hand, but if Doddridge Knapp had such a perfect alibi it was a waste of time to look into it. “And is this all you know?” I asked in disappointment. Mother Borton tried to remember some other point. “I don't see how it's going to keep a knife from between my ribs,” I complained. “You keep out of the way of Tom Terrill and his hounds, and you'll be all right, I reckon.” “Am I supposed to be the head man in this business?” “Yes.” “Who are my men?” “There's Wilson and Fitzhugh and Porter and Brown,” and she named ten or a dozen more. “And what is Dicky?” “It's a smart man as can put his finger on Dicky Nahl,” said Mother Borton spitefully. “Nahl is his name?” “Yes. And I've seen him hobnob with Henry Wilton, and I've seen him thick as thieves with Tom Terrill, and which he's thickest with the devil himself couldn't tell. I call him Slippery Dicky.” “Why did he bring me here to-night?” “I hearn there's orders come to change the place--the boy's place, you know. You was to tell 'em where the new one was to be, I reckon, but Tom Terrill spoiled things. He's lightning, is Tom Terrill. But I guess he got it all out of Dicky, though where Dicky got it the Lord only knows.”