"Mr. P. Gubb?" she asked. "I'm sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, Mr. Gubb, but I couldn't sleep all night. I came on a matter of business, as you might say. There's a couple of things I want you to do." "Paper-hanging or deteckating?" asked P. Gubb. "Both," said the young woman. "My name is Smitz--Emily Smitz. My husband--" "I'm aware of the knowledge of your loss, ma'am," said the paper-hanger detective gently. "Lots of people know of it," said Mrs. Smitz. "I guess everybody knows of it--I told the police to try to find Henry, so it is no secret. And I want you to come up as soon as you get dressed, and paper my bedroom." Mr. Gubb looked at the young woman as if he thought she had gone insane under the burden of her woe. "And then I want you to find Henry," she said, "because I've heard you can do so well in the detecting line." Mr. Gubb suddenly realized that the poor creature did not yet know the full extent of her loss. He gazed down upon her with pity in his bird-like eyes. "I know you'll think it strange," the young woman went on, "that I should ask you to paper a bedroom first, when my husband is lost; but if he is gone it is because I was a mean, stubborn thing. We never quarreled in our lives, Mr. Gubb, until I picked out the wall-paper for our bedroom, and Henry said parrots and birds-of-paradise and tropical flowers that were as big as umbrellas would look awful on our bedroom wall. So I said he hadn't anything but Low Dutch taste, and he got mad. 'All right, have it your own way,' he said, and I went and had Mr. Skaggs put the paper on the wall, and the next day Henry didn't come home at all. "If I'd thought Henry would take it that way, I'd rather had the wall bare, Mr. Gubb. I've cried and cried, and last night I made up my mind it was all my fault and that when Henry came home he'd find a decent paper on the wall. I don't mind telling you, Mr. Gubb, that when the paper was on the wall it looked worse than it looked in the roll. It looked crazy." "Yes'm," said Mr. Gubb, "it often does. But, however, there's something you'd ought to know right away about Henry." The young woman stared wide-eyed at Mr. Gubb for a moment; she turned as white as her shirtwaist. "Henry is dead!" she cried, and collapsed into Mr. Gubb's long, thin arms. Mr. Gubb, the inert form of the young woman in his arms, glanced around with a startled gaze. He stood miserably, not knowing what to do, when suddenly he saw Policeman O'Toole coming toward him down the hall. Policeman O'Toole was leading by the arm a man whose wrists bore clanking handcuffs. "What's this now?" asked the policeman none too gently, as he saw the bathrobed Mr. Gubb holding the fainting woman in his arms. "I am exceedingly glad you have come," said Mr. Gubb. "The only meaning into it, is that this is Mrs. H. Smitz, widow-lady, fainted onto me against my will and wishes." "I was only askin'," said Policeman O'Toole politely enough.