"I'd rather not appear in
this, Mrs. Pitman," he said apologetically, "and I think better along
my own lines. Not that I have anything against the police; they've
done some splendid work. But this case takes imagination, and the
police department deals with facts. We have no facts yet. What we
need, of course, is to have the man detained until we are sure of our
case."
He lifted his hat and turned away, and I went slowly up the steps to
the police station. Living, as I had, in a neighborhood where the
police, like the poor, are always with us, and where the visits of
the patrol wagon are one of those familiar sights that no amount
of repetition enabled any of us to treat with contempt, I was
uncomfortable until I remembered that my grandfather had been one of
the first mayors of the city, and that, if the patrol had been at my
house more than once, the entire neighborhood would testify that my
boarders were usually orderly.
At the door some one touched me on the arm. It was Mr. Holcombe again.
"I have been thinking it over," he said, "and I believe you'd better
not mention the piece of paper that you found behind the wash-stand.
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