“Money, and lots on lots of groceries—tea worth its weight in gold; lots of things.” “But what could he do with them?” “Well, it’s all out now, and I don’t mind your knowing about it. The boy’s mother is a sly old party, poor as a wharf-rat, and, oh my, how crafty! She sot the boy on, and hid the things for him in the wood-house. The detective found them there. Now, tell me, do you want any better proof than that?” “Then they found the things on the premises?” “That’s just what they did, and this morning the old woman was walked off by a policeman. I saw her go.” “Well, I’m awful sorry for the boy,” said the good-natured cook; “he seemed such a nice little shaver. Them eyes didn’t look dishonest; but there is no knowing who to trust these times.” “Exactly! Shouldn’t wonder if some one was to suspect me, one of these days. The more innercent a feller looks, the more suspicious, say I. But, tell me, is Mr. Mahone about? I’d just like to speak a word with him, if you’ll be kind enough to look him up.” The cook laid a paper parcel on the table, and good-naturedly went in search of Mr. Mahone, observing, “He’s more than likely in the servants’ parlor, with Ellen Post. Now you’ve told me some news that’ll give me a fit of mournfulness all day long, so I’ll just rertalerate, and tell you something worth while. Mr. Mahone and Ellen Post are engaged. They’re going to be married right out of hand. She’s going to open a first-class boarding-house, and he——Well, I suppose he’ll do like the rest of ’em, and keep up the marketing.” A clothes-horse, full of snow-white linen, stood near the door where these two persons were talking. The woman at the wash-tub, who had become strangely interested, as the conversation went on, stole softly behind this screen, and stood close to the wall, not three feet from the cook and her companion. She heard all that they were saying, and the last sentence brought a flash of fire to her dark eyes. Why she could not herself have told, for she knew of no person named Mahone, and she had never heard of Ellen Post in her life. Still the fire was in her eyes, and a sharp throb of nameless suspicion in her heart. For a moment the young man Boyce was silent, then a low shrill whistle broke from him. “So, that’s his little game, is it! Well, all right. Just say that I’m here and a waiting to speak with him. I’ll stay here.” The cook having disposed of her groceries, gave the empty basket to Boyce, and went into the servants’ parlor. Directly the footman came out, looking flushed and anxious. “Is it you, Boyce?” he said, pausing close to the laundry-door, and peering in to be sure the room was empty. “Just step inside here, and be quick; you and I must not be seen together much just now. Well, what is it? Speak low!” “The old woman, Mrs. Laurence, was arrested this morning.” “All right! But how do you know?”