At one o’clock, after a six-mile ramble, we entered a small country hotel. We had seen nothing of Johnson for a half hour. At that time he was a quarter of a mile behind us, and losing rapidly. Before we had finished our luncheon he staggered into the inn. One of his boots was under his arm, and his whole appearance was deplorable. He was coated with mud, streaked with perspiration, and he limped as he walked. He chose a table not far from us and ordered Scotch. Beyond touching his hat he paid no attention to us. “I’m just getting my second wind,” McKnight declared. “How do you feel, Mr. Johnson? Six or eight miles more and we’ll all enjoy our dinners.” Johnson put down the glass he had raised to his lips without replying. The fact was, however, that I was like Johnson. I was soft from my week’s inaction, and I was pretty well done up. McKnight, who was a well spring of vitality and high spirits, ordered a strange concoction, made of nearly everything in the bar, and sent it over to the detective, but Johnson refused it. “I hate that kind of person,” McKnight said pettishly. “Kind of a fellow that thinks you’re going to poison his dog if you offer him a bone.” When we got back to the car line, with Johnson a draggled and drooping tail to the kite, I was in better spirits. I had told McKnight the story of the three hours just after the wreck; I had not named the girl, of course; she had my promise of secrecy. But I told him everything else. It was a relief to have a fresh mind on it: I had puzzled so much over the incident at the farm-house, and the necklace in the gold bag, that I had lost perspective. He had been interested, but inclined to be amused, until I came to the broken chain. Then he had whistled softly. “But there are tons of fine gold chains made every year,” he said. “Why in the world do you think that the—er—smeary piece came from that necklace?” I had looked around. Johnson was far behind, scraping the mud off his feet with a piece of stick. “I have the short end of the chain in the sealskin bag,” I reminded him. “When I couldn’t sleep this morning I thought I would settle it, one way or the other. It was hell to go along the way I had been doing. And—there’s no doubt about it, Rich. It’s the same chain.” We walked along in silence until we caught the car back to town. “Well,” he said finally, “you know the girl, of course, and I don’t. But if you like her—and I think myself you’re rather hard hit, old man—I wouldn’t give a whoop about the chain in the gold purse. It’s just one of the little coincidences that hang people now and then. And as for last night—if she’s the kind of a girl you say she is, and you think she had anything to do with that, you—you’re addled, that’s all. You can depend on it, the lady of the empty house last week is the lady of last night. And yet your train acquaintance was in Altoona at that time.”