“The back one—farthest from the stairs.” “Thank you ma’am.” The men ran up, and she heard their loud knocking on the door and gruff orders to Findlay to open it. Then came the crash of splintering wood (the door was a flimsy affair) and their heavy tread as they rushed into the room. A moment later there were more distant voices, and the men came hurrying down again. “They got him outside, ma’am,” one of them said. “Sorry to make you all this trouble.” And the two passed out at the front door. Edith called: “Oh, wait! I want to——” One of the men turned in the doorway. “I want you to—I want you to tell me if—if——Oh, what is it?” “Some trouble in West Roxbury, ma’am. You can find out from headquarters.” As the man passed into the street she could hear Augustus’s voice through the open door. He was whining and crying that he didn’t know anything about it—he was here at home all the evening reading a book—that was what he was doing—he never once left the house—ask his wife if they didn’t believe it—she was right there—just ask her; in the midst of which came a rough caution from one of the inspectors that he’d better keep his mouth shut—he could tell all that to the chief. A moment later came the clatter of a car driven up from somewhere, the slamming of its door, and the sound of its rapid departure up the street. * * * * * A number of things were happening along here that I’m not going to try to describe to you. My supposition is that I’m able to get away with plain facts so they’ll be understood, which is all I aim at. But when it comes to telling you about Edith Findlay through all this affair—her going over to the mansion as soon as she could get a neighbor to take care of little Mildred, and staying there with all that was left of poor Haworth as long as they’d let her; and later her being at the funeral; and after that sitting stunned and dry-eyed in her little parlor at home while she slowly came to the realization of what it meant—that the one person who was all there was in the world for her had gone forever, and that somehow it was through her that the terrible thing had come about—I’m out of it altogether. I can only briefly refer to it as I’ve just been doing. Yet with all these fearful things coming down on her, the poor child—frail and delicate and already in the grip of the demon of disease—had it in her to stand up to it, quiet and brave. I made a mistake, though, when I said all these fearful things coming down on her, for she knew only one. Others had no place in her mind. They didn’t even occur to her. And with old Mrs. Temple it was much the same, though in a different way. Back of all the police investigations, and questionings of witnesses, and photographing, and ransacking the mansion and grounds surrounding it, and the sensational newspaper write-ups, and arrests, and talk, and confusion, was this cruel blow for each of them—the loss of the one who was dear to them.