“Why,” I said, bewildered again, “the house sneaked away from me--or, at least you left me alone in it.” “How was that?” she asked grimly. And I described graphically my experience in the deserted building. As I proceeded with my tale an amused look replaced the harsh lines of suspicion on Mother Borton's face. “Oh, my lud!” she cried with a chuckle. “Oh, my lud! how very green you are, my boy. Oh ho! oh ho!” And then she laughed an inward, self-consuming laugh that called up anything but the feeling of sympathetic mirth. “I'm glad it amuses you,” I said with injured dignity. “Oh, my liver! Don't you see it yet? Don't you see that you climbed into the next house back, and went through on to the other street?” And she relapsed into her state of silent merriment. I felt foolish enough as the truth flashed over me. I had lost my sense of direction in the strange house, and had been deceived by the resemblance of the ground plan of the two buildings. “But what about the plot?” I asked. “I got your note. It's very interesting. What about it?” “What plot?” “Why, I don't know. The one you wrote me about.” Mother Borton bent forward and searched my face with her keen glance. “Oh,” she said at last, “the one I wrote you about. I'd forgotten it.” This was disheartening. How could I depend on one whose memory was thus capricious? “Yes,” said I gloomily; “I supposed you might know something about it.” “Show me the note,” she said sharply. I fumbled through my pockets until I found it. Mother Borton clutched it, held it up to the candle, and studied it for two or three minutes. “Where did you get it?” I described the circumstances in which it had come into my possession, and repeated the essentials of Corson's story. Mother Borton's sharp, evil face was impassive during my recital. When it was done she muttered: “Gimme a fool for luck.” Then she appeared to consider for a minute or more. “Well?” said I inquiringly. “Well, honey, you're having a run of the cards,” she said at last. “Between having the message trusted to a fool boy, and having a cop for your friend, an' maybe gitting this note before you're expected to, you're setting here genteel-like having agreeable conversation along with me, instead of being in company you mightn't like so well--or maybe floating out toward Fort Point.” “So you didn't write it?” I said coolly. “I had an idea of the kind. That's why my friend Corson is smoking his pipe down stairs.” Mother Borton gave me a pleased look and nodded. I hoped I had made her regret the cruel insinuation in her application of the proverb to me as the favorite of fortune. “I see,” I said. “I was to be waylaid on the road here and killed.” “Carried off, more likely. I don't say as it wouldn't end in killin' ye. But, you see, you'd be of mighty small use in tellin' tales if you was dead; but you might be got to talk if they had ye in a quiet place.” “Good reasoning. But Henry Wilton was killed.”