“When did he have one of these ‘off-days,’ as you call them, last?” The tone was careless, as if Cranston did not attach much importance to the enquiry, and yet made it, as in duty bound. “On the Sunday before----” “May ninth,” interrupted Cranston. “Yes. In the afternoon he was dressed up to go visiting. Theodore sent for him to put his driving horse into the light buggy, so he could drive to Norridgewock. Jonathan didn’t like it and said if he couldn’t have Sunday afternoons, he’d find some place where he could.” “Was that all there was to it?” Cranston asked, after waiting a moment for Mrs. Parlin to continue. “Why, about all. It’s all too silly to repeat.” “I’d rather judge of that,” Cranston said, more shortly perhaps than he intended. Mrs. Parlin grew cold and distant, with that poise of the head that, to her friends, at least, told of offence taken. “It was only irritation and he didn’t even mean that Theodore should hear him, but Theodore did and answered pretty sharply and----” “Please, what did he say?” “That he could go any time it suited him, and that, while he intended to give a man all the privileges he could, he intended also to have his services when he wanted them. Jonathan said if he wanted a man to work like a nigger, he’d better get one; and Theodore told him if he heard another word from him, he’d discharge him on the spot.” Mrs. Parlin had spoken formally and distantly, as if to assert the compulsion under which she complied with his demand. “Was that the end of it?” he asked. “Why, of course. Neither of them meant it, and the easiest way was to let it pass. Theodore understood that and didn’t refer to it again. It’s sometimes the best way to get along with hasty folks.” “But did Oldbeg forget it?” Cranston asked significantly. “Possibly not. He knew he was wrong and it made him uneasy, but of course, it all went when the terrible murder was discovered.” Cranston looked at her with a puzzled expression, and then smiled as he realised that she had not understood his question. He was glad that it was so, and at once passed to other matters. To Frank Hunter, however, that night he reported his conviction that the evidence pointed more strongly to Oldbeg as the murderer than he had supposed. “In fact,” he said, “there’s enough to justify his arrest, and with that I feel pretty certain he’ll break down and we’ll get the truth.” “But the papers,” said Hunter, impatiently. “Oldbeg could have had no knowledge of them, but they’re what we’re first of all interested in.”