“Would you like it?” asked the gentleman.  Peter sat up, as he had been taught to do, and barked.  The gentleman reached down again, got a wooden platter from a stack of them at his feet, and placing the liver on it, put it on the step.  The whole thing was so neat and businesslike that I could only gaze.

“That’s a well-trained dog, madam,” said the elderly gentleman, beaming at Peter over his glasses.  “You should not have neglected him.”

“The flood put him out of my mind,” I explained, humbly enough, for I was ashamed.

“Exactly.  Do you know how many starving dogs and cats I have found this morning?” He took a note-book out of his pocket and glanced at it.  “Forty-eight.  Forty-eight, madam!  And ninety-three cats!  I have found them marooned in trees, clinging to fences, floating on barrels, and I have found them in comfortable houses where there was no excuse for their neglect.  Well, I must be moving on.  I have the report of a cat with a new litter in the loft of a stable near here.”

He wiped his hands carefully on a fresh paper napkin, of which also a heap rested on one of the seats of the boat, and picked up an oar, smiling benevolently at Peter.  Then, suddenly, he bent over and looked at the stained rope end, tied to the stair-rail.

“What’s that?” he said.

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” I replied.  I glanced up at the Ladleys’ door, but it was closed.

The little man dropped his oar, and fumbling in his pockets, pulled out a small magnifying-glass.  He bent over, holding to the rail, and inspected the stains with the glass.  I had taken a fancy to him at once, and in spite of my excitement I had to smile a little.

“Humph!” he said, and looked up at me.  “That’s blood.  Why did you cut the boat loose?”

“I didn’t,” I said.  “If that is blood, I want to know how it got there.  That was a new rope last night.”  I glanced at the Ladleys’ door again, and he followed my eyes.

“I wonder,” he said, raising his voice a little, “if I come into your kitchen, if you will allow me to fry a little of that liver.  There’s a wretched Maltese in a tree at the corner of Fourth Street that won’t touch it, raw.”

I saw that he wanted to talk to me, so I turned around and led the way to the temporary kitchen I had made.

“Now,” he said briskly, when he had closed the door, “there’s something wrong here.  Perhaps if you tell me, I can help.  If I can’t, it will do you good to talk about it.  My name’s Holcombe, retired merchant.  Apply to First National Bank for references.”

“I’m not sure there is anything wrong,” I began.  “I guess I’m only nervous, and thinking little things are big ones.  There’s nothing to tell.”

“Nonsense.  I come down the street in my boat.  A white-faced gentleman with a cigarette looks out from a window when I stop at the door, and ducks back when I glance up.  I come in and find a pet dog, obviously overfed at ordinary times, whining with hunger on the stairs.  As I prepare to feed him, a pale woman comes down, trying to put a right-hand glove on her left hand, and with her jacket wrong side out.  What am I to think?”