I started and looked at my coat.  He was right.  And when, as I tried to take it off, he helped me, and even patted me on the shoulder—­what with his kindness, and the long morning alone, worrying, and the sleepless night, I began to cry.  He had a clean handkerchief in my hand before I had time to think of one.

“That’s it,” he said.  “It will do you good, only don’t make a noise about it.  If it’s a husband on the annual flood spree, don’t worry, madam.  They always come around in time to whitewash the cellars.”

“It isn’t a husband,” I sniffled.

“Tell me about it,” he said.  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.  On the step was sitting a forlorn yellow puppy.  As we stared, Mr. Ladley stopped the boat, looked back at us, bent over, placed a piece of liver on a platter, and reached it over to the dog.  Then, rising in the boat, he bowed, with his hat over his heart, in our direction, sat down calmly, and rowed around the corner out of sight.

Mr. Holcombe was in a frenzy of rage.  He jumped up and down, shaking his fist out the window after the retreating boat.  He ran down the staircase, only to come back and look out the window again.  The police boat was not in sight, but the Maguire children had worked their raft around to the street and were under the window.  He leaned out and called to them.

“A quarter each, boys,” he said, “if you’ll take me on that raft to the nearest pavement.”

“Money first,” said the oldest boy, holding his cap.

But Mr. Holcombe did not wait.  He swung out over the window-sill, holding by his hands, and lit fairly in the center of the raft.

“Don’t touch anything in that room until I come back,” he called to me, and jerking the pole from one of the boys, propelled the raft with amazing speed down the street.