With this incident filling my mind, I returned to Washington. I had acquainted myself with the open facts of this family’s history; but what of its inner life? Who knew it? Did any one? Even the man who confided to me the _contretemps_ in the hotel parlor could not be sure what underlay Mr. Jeffrey’s warm advocacy of the woman he had elected to marry. He could not even be certain that he had really understood the feeling shown by Cora Tuttle when she heard the man, who had once lavished attentions on her, express in this public manner a preference for her sister. A woman has great aptness in concealing a mortal hurt, and, from what I had seen of this one, I thought it highly improbable that all was quiet in her passionate breast because she had turned an impassive front to the world. I was becoming confused in the maze of my own imaginings. To escape the results of this confusion, I determined to drop theory and confine myself to facts. And thus passed the first few days succeeding the tragic discovery in the Moore house. VII. SLY WORK The next morning my duty led me directly in the way of that little friend of mine whom I have already mentioned. It is strange how often my duty did lead me in her way. She is a demure little creature, with wits as bright as her eyes, which is saying a great deal; and while, in the course of our long friendship, I had admired without making use of the special abilities I saw in her, I felt that the time had now come when they might prove of inestimable value to me. Greeting her with pardonable abruptness, I expressed my wishes in these possibly alarming words: “Jinny, you can do something for me. Find out—I know you can, and that, too, without arousing suspicion or compromising either of us—where Mr. Moore, of Waverley Avenue, buys his groceries, and when you have done that, whether or not he has lately resupplied himself with candles.” The surprise which she showed had a touch of naivete in it which was very encouraging. “Mr. Moore?” she cried, “the uncle of her who—who—” “The very same,” I responded, and waited for her questions without adding a single word in way of explanation. She gave me a look—oh, what a look! It was as encouraging to the detective as it was welcome to the lover; after which she nodded, once in doubt, once in question and once in frank and laughing consent, and darted off. I thanked Providence for such a self-contained little aide-de-camp and proceeded on my way, in a state of great self-satisfaction. An hour later I came upon her again. It is really extraordinary how frequently the paths of some people cross. “Well?” I asked. “Mr. Moore deals with Simpkins, just two blocks away from his house; and only a week ago he bought some candles there.” I rewarded her with a smile which summoned into view the most exasperating of dimples.