When he opened it again, the room was empty. I called in Terry,
the Irishman who does odd jobs for me now and then, and we both got to
work at the tacks in the carpet, Terry working by the window, and I by
the door into the back parlor, which the Ladleys used as a bedroom.
That was how I happened to hear what I afterward told the police.
Some one--a man, but not Mr. Ladley--was talking. Mrs. Ladley broke
in: "I won't do it!" she said flatly. "Why should I help him? He
doesn't help me. He loafs here all day, smoking and sleeping, and sits
up all night, drinking and keeping me awake."
The voice went on again, as if in reply to this, and I heard a rattle
of glasses, as if they were pouring drinks. They always had whisky,
even when they were behind with their board.
"That's all very well," Mrs. Ladley said. I could always hear her, she
having a theatrical sort of voice--one that carries. "But what about
the prying she-devil that runs the house?"
"Hush, for God's sake!" broke in Mr. Ladley, and after that they spoke
in whispers.
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