I was more than anxious to go. In fact, I could not bear the idea of staying alone in the house, with heaven only knows what concealed in the depths of that muddy flood. I got on my wraps again, and Mr. Holcombe rowed me out. Peter plunged into the water to follow, and had to be sent back. He sat on the lower step and whined. Mr. Holcombe threw him another piece of liver, but he did not touch it. We rowed to the corner of Robinson Street and Federal--it was before Federal Street was raised above the flood level--and left the boat in charge of a boy there. And we walked to the police station. On the way Mr. Holcombe questioned me closely about the events of the morning, and I recalled the incident of the burned pillow-slip. He made a note of it at once, and grew very thoughtful. He left me, however, at the police station. "I'd rather not appear in this, Mrs. Pitman," he said apologetically, "and I think better along my own lines. Not that I have anything against the police; they've done some splendid work. But this case takes imagination, and the police department deals with facts. We have no facts yet. What we need, of course, is to have the man detained until we are sure of our case." He lifted his hat and turned away, and I went slowly up the steps to the police station. Living, as I had, in a neighborhood where the police, like the poor, are always with us, and where the visits of the patrol wagon are one of those familiar sights that no amount of repetition enabled any of us to treat with contempt, I was uncomfortable until I remembered that my grandfather had been one of the first mayors of the city, and that, if the patrol had been at my house more than once, the entire neighborhood would testify that my boarders were usually orderly. At the door some one touched me on the arm. It was Mr. Holcombe again. "I have been thinking it over," he said, "and I believe you'd better not mention the piece of paper that you found behind the wash-stand. They might say the whole thing is a hoax." "Very well," I agreed, and went in. The police sergeant in charge knew me at once, having stopped at my house more than once in flood-time for a cup of hot coffee. "Sit down, Mrs. Pitman," he said. "I suppose you are still making the best coffee and doughnuts in the city of Allegheny? Well, what's the trouble in your district? Want an injunction against the river for trespass?" "The river has brought me a good bit of trouble," I said. "I'm--I'm worried, Mr. Sergeant. I think a woman from my house has been murdered, but I don't know." "Murdered," he said, and drew up his chair. "Tell me about it." I told him everything, while he sat back with his eyes half closed, and his fingers beating a tattoo on the arm of his chair. When I finished he got up and went into an inner room. He came back in a moment. "I want you to come in and tell that to the chief," he said, and led the way.