“Nobody knows it,” Liddy said humbly. “I found it in the basket in Miss Gertrude’s dressing-room. Look at the back of the sheet.” I turned over some of the scraps, and, sure enough, it was a blank deposit slip from the Traders’ Bank. So Gertrude was going to meet Jack Bailey that night by the bridge! And I had thought he was ill! It hardly seemed like the action of an innocent man—this avoidance of daylight, and of his fiancée’s people. I decided to make certain, however, by going to the bridge that night. After luncheon Mr. Jamieson suggested that I go with him to Richfield, and I consented. “I am inclined to place more faith in Doctor Stewart’s story,” he said, “since I found that scrap in old Thomas’ pocket. It bears out the statement that the woman with the child, and the woman who quarreled with Armstrong, are the same. It looks as if Thomas had stumbled on to some affair which was more or less discreditable to the dead man, and, with a certain loyalty to the family, had kept it to himself. Then, you see, your story about the woman at the card-room window begins to mean something. It is the nearest approach to anything tangible that we have had yet.” Warner took us to Richfield in the car. It was about twenty-five miles by railroad, but by taking a series of atrociously rough short cuts we got there very quickly. It was a pretty little town, on the river, and back on the hill I could see the Mortons’ big country house, where Halsey and Gertrude had been staying until the night of the murder. Elm Street was almost the only street, and number fourteen was easily found. It was a small white house, dilapidated without having gained anything picturesque, with a low window and a porch only a foot or so above the bit of a lawn. There was a baby-carriage in the path, and from a swing at the side came the sound of conflict. Three small children were disputing vociferously, and a faded young woman with a kindly face was trying to hush the clamor. When she saw us she untied her gingham apron and came around to the porch. “Good afternoon,” I said. Jamieson lifted his hat, without speaking. “I came to inquire about a child named Lucien Wallace.” “I am glad you have come,” she said. “In spite of the other children, I think the little fellow is lonely. We thought perhaps his mother would be here to-day.” Mr. Jamieson stepped forward. “You are Mrs. Tate?” I wondered how the detective knew. “Yes, sir.” “Mrs. Tate, we want to make some inquiries. Perhaps in the house—” “Come right in,” she said hospitably. And soon we were in the little shabby parlor, exactly like a thousand of its prototypes. Mrs. Tate sat uneasily, her hands folded in her lap. “How long has Lucien been here?” Mr. Jamieson asked. “Since a week ago last Friday. His mother paid one week’s board in advance; the other has not been paid.” “Was he ill when he came?” “No, sir, not what you’d call sick. He was getting better of typhoid, she said, and he’s picking up fine.”