She laughed aloud in her amusement. "I am observant. I find--" and the lines about her mouth hardened--"it pays to be. Will you dine with me to-morrow night, Charles?" "Surely," with eager haste. "And will you go to the theater afterward?" "Perhaps." She laid her hand for the fraction of a second against his cheek with a caressing motion. "Careful, dear, James is waiting to open the door for you--" and Craige perforce contented himself with a formal handshake as the servant came forward to the foot of the short flight of steps with his overcoat and hat. Craige was about to step into his motor when he became aware that the butler was at his elbow. "Can I have a word with you, sir?" he asked, and a jerk of his thumb indicated Craige's chauffeur. "In private, sir." "Certainly, James." Mystified by the butler's air of secretiveness Craige followed him a few steps down the street. When convinced that the chauffeur could not overhear them, James halted. But they were not destined to have their interview in private, for as Craige stood waiting for James to explain what he wished Inspector Mitchell stopped beside them. "Good afternoon, Mr. Craige," he said, as he nodded a greeting to the butler. "Glad to see you, sir. Now, James, why did you send for me?" James rubbed his hands together and cast an appealing look at Craige. "I had to," he began, addressing his remarks to him rather than to Mitchell. "My conscience couldn't rest easy, sir, after I read the newspapers about the inquest." "The inquest?" Mitchell's eyes snapped with excitement. "Go on, man--you mean the Baird inquest?" "Yes. Mr. Craige, sir, the newspapers said that Miss Baird was killed by poison put on a peach," he spoke in nervous haste and Craige had some difficulty in catching what he said. "Nobody seemed to know where the peaches came from 'cording to the papers." "No more we did," prompted Mitchell. "Well, what then?" James licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Miss Kitty Baird goes to the market sometimes for Mrs. Parsons, sir. On Saturday she brought back some California peaches," his voice sank even lower. "She called here Sunday morning, and when she left, the peaches wasn't on the dining room table." Craige stared the butler out of countenance. "Preposterous!" he exclaimed, turning red with indignation. "What are you suggesting, James?" "Nothing, sir, Mr. Craige. I'm just telling you about the peaches." Craige's face was a study of wrath and bewilderment; the former predominating. With an effort, he checked an oath and instead drew out some loose silver. "I am glad you spoke only to us, James," he said. "Come with me, Mitchell," and paying no attention to the inspector's protests that he wished further word with the butler, he hurried him toward his car. So occupied were both men that neither caught James' furtive glance at the parlor window as he turned to re�nter Mrs. Parsons' house. CHAPTER XX THE FEET OF THE FURTIVE