“I can’t make you out,” he shook his head. “But I’m for you, Miss Austin. That is,” he hedged, “unless I find out something definite against you. I feel I ought to tell you, that you’ve enemies—yes,” as the girl looked up surprised, “you’ve made enemies in this house. Small wonder—the way you’ve acted! Now, why can’t you be chummy and sociable like?” “Chummy? Sociable? With whom?” “With all the boarders. There’s young Lockwood now—and there’s young Tyler—” “Yes, yes, I know. I will—Mr. Adams—I will try to be more sociable. Now—as to—to Doctor Waring—why did he kill himself?” Old Salt eyed her narrowly. “We don’t know that he did,” he began. “But Mrs. Adams told me all the details”—she shuddered, “and if that room he was in was so securely locked that they had to break in, how could it be the work of—of another?” “Well, Miss Austin, as they found a bad wound in the man’s neck, just under his right ear, a wound that produced instant unconsciousness and almost instant death, and as no weapon of any sort could be found in the room, how could it have been suicide?” “Which would you rather think it?” the strange girl asked, looking gravely at him. “Well, to me—I’m an old-fashioned chap—suicide always suggests cowardice, and Doc Waring was no coward, that I’ll swear!” “No, he was not—” “How do you know?” Miss Mystery started at the sudden question. “I heard him lecture, you know,” she returned; “and, too, I saw him in his home—Sunday afternoon—and he seemed a fine man—a fine man.” “Well, Miss Austin,” Old Salt rose to go, “I’m free to confess you’re a mystery to me. I consider myself a fair judge of men—yes, and of women, but when a slip of a girl like you acts so strange, I can’t make it out. Now, I happen to know—” He paused at the panic-stricken look on her face, and lamely concluded; “Never mind—I won’t tell.” With which cryptic remark he went away. “Well, what you been saying to her?” demanded his aggrieved spouse, as the Adamses met in their own little sitting-room. “Why, nothing,” Old Salt replied, and his troubled eyes looked at her pleadingly. “I don’t think she’s wrong, Esther.” “Well, I do. And maybe a whole lot wrong. Why, Saltonstall, Miss Bascom says she _saw_ Miss Austin traipsing across the field late Sunday night.” “She didn’t! I don’t believe a word of it! She’s a meddling old maid—a snooping busybody!” “There, now, you carry on like that because you’re afraid we will discover something wrong about Miss Mystery.” “Look here, Esther,” Adams spoke sternly; “you remember she’s a young girl, without anybody to stand up for her, hereabouts. Now, you know what a bobbery a few words can kick up. And we don’t want that poor child’s name touched by a breath of idle gossip that isn’t true. I don’t believe Liza Bascom saw her out on Sunday night! I don’t even believe she thought she did!” “Well, I believe it. Liza Bascom’s no fool—”