Mr. Sparhawk during the next fifteen minutes said a number of things; he said some of them gently, others were uttered guardedly, still others had that insinuating quality which usually forces an answer. But the girl merely sat and listened, her eyes fixed upon Mr. Sparhawk's face. At length he arose to go; and then she spoke. "If it is common rumor that my father and myself were seen at Mr. Magruder's place of business on the night of his death, why do not the police of the city take action?" "It is not common rumor," stated Mr. Sparhawk. "Far from it. There is a whisper going about that a woman is somehow concerned; but it is only a whisper, and a vague one. Neither your father's name nor yours has been mentioned. And the reason for this," Mr. Sparhawk smoothed the nap of his hat with careful touch, "is that, excepting those who saw you, no one knows them in connection with the matter but myself." The girl regarded him quietly. "In that you are wrong," she said. "There is, at least, one other person who knows." "No!" said Mr. Sparhawk, and his leisurely manner became suddenly swift. "No!" "At least one other," repeated the girl. "He mentioned it to me several days ago!" "May I ask," and Mr. Sparhawk tilted his head sideways with his bird-like manner, "who it was?" "Captain Weir," said the girl. "I see," said Mr. Sparhawk, softly; "I see." And when he had bidden the girl good night, and the maid had shown him down-stairs, and he stood in Water Street, buttoning up his coat against the chill air, Mr. Sparhawk once more carried between his brows the little frown of interrogation. XV Winter crept in. The water in the docks froze; later, great white blocks were drifting in the river. Then, one bitter night, the stream was sealed, and shipping was over until the spring, or some unlooked-for stretch of mild weather. Anthony had changed his quarters to a neat old house in Sassafras Street, where he had a bedroom facing the west, and a small snuggery with a window overlooking the south. Each morning, while the bells in the towers were ringing seven, his boots were crunching through the frozen snow on the way to Rufus Stevens' Sons. Always, by half-past seven on the word of the clock on the counting-house wall, he'd reached there, hung his great blue coat in a closet, and whipped into the work at hand. There never was such a counting-house for order as Rufus Stevens' Sons. Anthony found that out when he'd only been there a few days. Its ledgers were models; its clerks had the vanity of perfection; its windows shone like crystal, the floor planks were white with scrubbing, and its brass work snapped with the light from fireplaces whose hearths were ever swept clean of smut. The deep, cave-like warehouses were equally well kept; the goods in cases, barrels, and bales were ranked in massive and severe array; the carts and drays were smart with paint, their horses strong and well conditioned.