One matter was off my mind when I went away; this was my qualm as to whether I ought to inform the police of Jerry’s connection with Klangenberg. They would pick up mighty small change at that address, I thought; and when I returned two days later, I was sure of it. Though I entered the door at the precise time of my appointment, neither the boy nor the dyke-keeper was there; a little girl of ten years tended the cash register and piled the computing scales with noodles. This child gave me no particular attention until she had cleared the shop of customers, when she said, “That’s the door back there.” I went through it to an area between the shop and an old moved-over frame building. Some one--I didn’t know who--relieved the child in the shop, for she came out to me and led me through a shed where a horse was stabled. We sidled about another shed and climbed a tunnel of wooden stairs, built on the outside of a clapboard house, and roofed and walled against the weather. “That’s the door,” the child said, when we came to the top; obviously she was speaking, as well as guiding, by instructions. She halted and I went on and knocked at the door. “Come in,” said Jerry’s voice; and I opened and found Jerry before me. X AND LEARN THE WAYS OF ITS LOGIC. He had just risen from a bed upon which he had been seated,--a plain, white, iron bed with a red quilt. He looked me over and, welcoming me, waved me to a chair, a plain, wooden chair, not new. The room was ordinary with striped, cheap paper on the walls; it had a floor of soft wood with a circle of rag carpet; besides the bed and chair, there was a washstand boasting of a bowl and pitcher. Altogether these were the furnishings which a person reared on Astor Street knows to exist but which he has seen only when he has happened to pass an express wagon heaped with the effects of a Halsted Street moving or when, detouring by some strange road, he comes upon the fruit of an “eviction.” By some amazing transmutation, the man before me fitted the furnishings as he fitted the too “tailored” suit, too narrow in lapels, too belted at the waist, too conspicuously “patch pocketed.” He wore a shirt of too obvious silk and overdecorated shoes; and he wore them as if he had been bred to aspire to them and to nothing else. A look at him and I knew why the police, in all the time they had searched since the robbery of Dorothy Crewe, had never picked him up. They had been searching for an Astor Street resident in some such garments as Jerry had worn by the river; they had expected him, when casting off his accustomed clothes, to don rough, contrasting attire; no one would have expected him to outdo, in his garb, himself as he had appeared before. I, least of all.