There was something so kindly in his
face, and it was so long since I had had a bit of human sympathy, that
I almost broke down again.
I sat there, with a crowd of children paddling on a raft outside the
window, and Molly Maguire, next door, hauling the morning's milk up in
a pail fastened to a rope, her doorway being too narrow to admit the
milkman's boat, and I told him the whole story.
"Humph!" he exclaimed, when I had finished. "It's curious, but--you
can't prove a murder unless you can produce a body."
"When the river goes down, we'll find the body," I said, shivering.
"It's in the parlor."
"Then why doesn't he try to get away?"
"He is ready to go now. He only went back when your boat came in."
Mr. Holcombe ran to the door, and flinging it open, peered into the
lower hall. He was too late. His boat was gone, tub of liver, pile of
wooden platters and all!
We hurried to the room the Ladleys had occupied. It was empty. From
the window, as we looked out, we could see the boat, almost a square
away. It had stopped where, the street being higher, a door-step rose
above the flood.
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