me the queerest feelings. Advancing quite unceremoniously upon the watcher by the grave, I remarked aloud; “The setting sun will soon release you, Mr. Moore. Are you going immediately into town?” He paused in his rubbing, which was being done with a very tender hand, and as if he really loved the name he was endeavoring to bring into plainer view. Scowling a little, he turned and met me point-blank with a look which had a good deal of inquiry in it. “I am not usually interrupted here,” he emphasized; “except by the boys,” he added more mildly. “They sometimes approach too closely, but I am used to the imps and scarcely notice them. Ah! there are some of my old friends now! Well, it is time they knew that a change has taken place in my fortunes. Hi, there! Hands up and catch this, and this, and this!” he shouted. “But keep quiet about it or next year you will get pennies again.” And flinging quarters right and left, he smiled in such a pompous, self-satisfied way at the hurrah and scramble which ensued, that it was well worth my journey there just to see this exhibition of combined vanity and good humor. “Now go!” he vociferated; and the urchins, black and white, flew away, flinging up their heels in delight and shouting: “Bully for you, Uncle David! We’ll come again next year, not for twenty-fives but _fifties_.” “I will make it dollars if I only live so long,” he muttered. And deigning now to remember the question I had put to him, he grandly remarked: “I am going straight into town. Can I do anything for you?” “Nothing. I thought you might like to know what awaits you there. The city is greatly stirred up. The coroner’s jury in the Jeffrey-Moore case has just brought in a verdict to the effect that suicide has not been proved. Naturally, this is equivalent to one of murder.” “Ah!” he ejaculated, slightly taken aback for one so invariably impassive. “And to whom is the guilt of this crime ascribed?” he presently ventured. “There was mention of no name; but the opprobrium naturally falls on Miss Tuttle.” “Miss Tuttle? Ah!” “Since Mr. Jeffrey is proved to have been too far away at the time to have fired that shot, while she—” “I am following you—” “Was in the very house—at the door of the library in fact—and heard the pistol discharged, if she did not discharge it herself—which some believe, notably the district attorney. You should have been there, Mr. Moore.” He looked surprised at this suggestion. “I never am anywhere but here on the twenty-third of May,” he declared. “Miss Tuttle needed some adviser.” “Ah, probably.” “You would have been a good one.” “And a welcome one, eh?” I hardly thought he would have been a welcome one, but I did not admit the fact. Nevertheless he seized on the advantage he evidently thought he had gained and added, mildly enough, or rather without any display of feeling: