I don't think the man knew he
was a prisoner. I went in to turn down the bed, and he was sitting
by the window, reading the evening paper's account of the trial--an
elderly gentleman, rather professional-looking.
Mr. Holcombe slept on the upper landing of the hall that night, rolled
in a blanket--not that I think his witness even thought of escaping,
but the little man was taking no chances.
At eight o'clock that night the bell rang. It was Mr. Howell. I
admitted him myself, and he followed me back to the dining-room. I had
not seen him for several weeks, and the change in him startled me. He
was dressed carefully, but his eyes were sunken in his head, and he
looked as if he had not slept for days.
Mr. Reynolds had gone up-stairs, not finding me socially inclined.
"You haven't been sick, Mr. Howell, have you?" I asked.
"Oh, no, I'm well enough, I've been traveling about. Those infernal
sleeping-cars--"
His voice trailed off, and I saw him looking at my mother's picture,
with the jonquils beneath.
"That's curious!" he said, going closer.
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