“Why, I haven’t the slightest idea where the thief that robbed the Fayerweather’s is now,” said I, wishing with all my heart that the constable was on his vacation at some pleasant summer resort, far, far away. “Minerva,” said I, trying to take the bull by the horns, “what makes you say that I entertained a thief last night?” “I didn’ say so, Mist. Vernon. This ge’man said that a man, now—robbed that house, an’ ast me if we had a mid—a midnight vis’ter; an’ I said no one but your frien’ that I cooked the om’let for; an’ he ast me how he looked, an’ I told him it couldn’ be him, because you an’ him was great frien’s, an’ I knowed you wasn’ no frien’s with a burglar.” “Hm,” said I, wondering why in thunderation I had been placed in such an unpleasant position as this, solely through my well-meant efforts to keep Minerva contented. “Did you entertain a friend here after midnight, last night?” asked the constable, who seemed a painfully direct sort of individual. “There was a man came here late last night, and we had a little chat together, and a—a little supper, you might call it.” I paused and looked at Ethel. She was the color of a carnation. “Go on,” said the constable. At this I remembered my dignity, and again stood upon it. “Why should I go on? Who are you to cross-question me in this way?” “I am the constable, as I said before, and I consider it very suspicious that you should be visited by a man who had a bag that jingled, at midnight.” “Why shouldn’t it jingle at midnight?” said I with a desperate attempt to impart a tone of lightness to the conversation. “If I choose to give a meal to a wayfarer with a jingling bag, I suppose it is my own concern.” “Mist. Vernon, he warn’t no tramp. He was a good dresser,” said Minerva, looking at me reproachfully. “Was—this—man—a—friend—of—yours—or—not?” asked the constable doggedly. “He was a friend of mine last night,” said I, thinking of the debt of gratitude I felt I owned him when he went away. “Did you suspect him of being a thief?” said the constable, in such a casual way that without thinking I said “Yes.” Minerva’s arms had been folded on her breast. They dropped to her side. Ethel slipped behind the constable and went into the parlour—to cool her red cheeks, I suppose. It was certainly a very unpleasant position for both of us, and I felt that my white lies were coming home to roost way ahead of roosting time. “Did he give you a part of the spoils as a reward for having fed him?” “No, sir.” This indignantly.