Jane smiled mischievously. “I promise, Oliver, to tell you first of all. I sha’n’t keep you in suspense any longer than I can help.” “Before you tell your own mother,” cried Josephine. “Much as I love you, Mother dear, I feel that I must tell Oliver first. He is my oldest and best friend.” “I have just been thinking, Josephine,” began Mr. Sage, guiltily and irrelevantly, “that I quite forgot to take Henry the Eighth out for his walk this evening. And even worse, I fear I left him hanging by his lead from the top peg of the hatrack.” “I really shouldn’t mind, my dear, if he were to expire before we get home,” said she. “He is a traitor. Would you believe it, Oliver, the little beast has taken such a fancy to your Uncle Herbert that he has completely turned against me. Snaps at me, growls at me, barks at me every time I try to pat him. Hanging is too good for him.” “Speaking of hanging,” said Sammy, “old Joe Sikes says he’s got a perfect alibi for you, Ollie, in connection with that murder up in Grand Rapids. I mean the chap who was found in a hotel room last night with his throat cut. Joe says he can prove by thirty reputable witnesses that you were not within four hundred miles of Grand Rapids last night.” Oliver grinned. “That’s all he and Silas Link think about these days—fixing up alibis for me. They grab up the morning paper to see where the latest murder has occurred and then they hustle out and establish an alibi for me.” “How perfectly delicious,” cried little Mrs. Sammy. “Don’t you think it is really perfectly delicious, Mr. Sage?” “I beg your pardon?” stammered the pastor apologetically. “I am afraid I was thinking about Henry the Eighth.” “Oh, you are _so_ literary, Mr. Sage,” shrieked Mrs. Sammy admiringly. Oliver was strangely restless during dinner, and immediately after the company arose from the table at its conclusion he asked Jane to come with him for a little stroll in the open air. “I want to speak to you about something,” he urged. “Better throw something over your shoulders. The night air—” “Ought you to go off and leave the others, Oliver?” she began, a queer little catch, as of alarm, in her voice. “Muriel and Sammy—” “Come along,” he pleaded. “They won’t mind. I must see you alone for a few minutes, Jane.” “I will get my wrap,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “It may be chilly outside.” “Why, you’re shivering now, Janie,” he whispered anxiously, as he threw her wrap over her shoulders. “Are you cold?” She did not reply. He followed her out upon the porch and down the steps. No word passed between them until they had turned the bend in the drive and were outside the radius of light shed from the windows. He was the first to speak. “See here, Jane,” he blurted out, “I’m—I’m terribly troubled and upset.” That was as far as he got, speech seeming to fail him. She laid her hand on his arm. “Is it about—about the detective, Oliver?” she asked tremulously.