“How does anybody know how long a skeleton has been dead?” demanded Mr. Baxter severely. “Of course it’s Tom Sharp. He got smashed over the head with an ax that night by another gypsy whose wife he had run away with. The husband caught up with him at Rumley, after chasing him for months. It’s against the gypsy law for a man to steal another man’s wife. So they never said anything about the killing. Just took Tom Sharp out in the swamp and—er—sort of left him. The fellow that killed him joined the band and went back to living with his wife, who was a girl named Magda. Maybe you recollect her. She was up to my house that night. Her husband died five or six years ago. His widow—Say, Horace, if they think that body is mine, who is supposed to have killed me?” Mr. Gooch experienced a strange and unsuspected softening of the heart. “A man that used to work around your place,” said he, after a moment’s hesitation. “He skipped out a few weeks ago,” he added, generously enlarging upon the lie. Silence fell between them. Mr. Baxter was thinking profoundly, his brow wrinkled, his eyes fixed on one of his bony hands. “Just so it wasn’t—Oliver,” he said at last, swallowing hard. He had removed the gaudy muffler. His Adam’s apple rose and fell twice convulsively. “I’d hate to have people think he did it.” “Your pipe’s gone out, Ollie,” said Mr. Gooch brusquely. “You can’t blame it,” sighed Mr. Baxter, yawning again. “I’m too tired to keep it going.” Horace busied himself about the stove and at the sink over by the window. “I guess you won’t mind my asking a question, Ollie,” he said, turning to his brother-in-law. “Seeing that you hate me, what put it into your head to come here to-night and ask for lodging in my house, knowing that I hate you as much as you do me—or more?” “Well, you see,” began Mr. Baxter, very wistfully and yet shamefacedly, “I’ve been among strangers for so long, Horace, and I’ve been so homesick for some of my own folks that I—well, I sort of felt I’d like to see even you.” Mr. Gooch pulled at his whiskers for a long time. “Come to think of it, Ollie,” he said, rather loudly, due to the discovery that the other was having great difficulty in keeping his eyes open, “I guess I’ll have you sleep in that big feather bed in the—er—in my second spare room. How will that suit you? And I’ll let you have a nice, fresh night-shirt. Come along. Better get to bed.” Mr. Baxter looked at him in a sort of mild, sleepy wonder. “Why, you’re not half as stingy as I thought you’d be,” said he slowly. “Anybody that says I am stingy don’t know what he’s talking about,” said Mr. Gooch magnificently. He escorted his guest up the back stairs and ushered him into the one and only spare room the house afforded. “Get undressed, Ollie,” said he. “I’ll be back in a minute with the night-shirt.” He hurried off to his own room. As he opened the door he stopped—aghast.