9:00 A.M.—­Sunday.  Ladley in bad shape.  Apparently been drinking all night.  Can not eat.  Sent out early for papers, and has searched them all.  Found entry on second page, stared at it, then flung the paper away.  Have sent out for same paper.

10:00 A.M.—­Paper says:  “Body of woman washed ashore yesterday at Sewickley.  Much mutilated by flood debris.”  Ladley in bed, staring at ceiling.  Wonder if he sees tube?  He is ghastly.

That is the last entry in the note-book for that day.  Mr. Holcombe called me in great excitement shortly after ten and showed me the item.  Neither of us doubted for a moment that it was Jennie Brice who had been found.  He started for Sewickley that same afternoon, and he probably communicated with the police before he left.  For once or twice I saw Mr. Graves, the detective, sauntering past the house.

Mr. Ladley ate no dinner.  He went out at four, and I had Mr. Reynolds follow him.  But they were both back in a half-hour.  Mr. Reynolds reported that Mr. Ladley had bought some headache tablets and some bromide powders to make him sleep.

Mr. Holcombe came back that evening.  He thought the body was that of Jennie Brice, but the head was gone.  He was much depressed, and did not immediately go back to the periscope.  I asked if the head had been cut off or taken off by a steamer; he was afraid the latter, as a hand was gone, too.

It was about eleven o’clock that night that the door-bell rang.  It was Mr. Graves, with a small man behind him.  I knew the man; he lived in a shanty-boat not far from my house—­a curious affair with shelves full of dishes and tinware.  In the spring he would be towed up the Monongahela a hundred miles or so and float down, tying up at different landings and selling his wares.  Timothy Senft was his name.  We called him Tim.

Mr. Graves motioned me to be quiet.  Both of us knew that behind the parlor door Ladley was probably listening.

“Sorry to get you up, Mrs. Pitman,” said Mr. Graves, “but this man says he has bought beer here to-day.  That won’t do, Mrs. Pitman.”

“Beer!  I haven’t such a thing in the house.  Come in and look,” I snapped.  And the two of them went back to the kitchen.

“Now,” said Mr. Graves, when I had shut the door, “where’s the dog’s-meat man?”

“Up-stairs.”

“Bring him quietly.”

I called Mr. Holcombe, and he came eagerly, note-book and all.  “Ah!” he said, when he saw Tim.  “So you’ve turned up!”

“Yes, sir.”

“It seems, Mr. Dog’s—­Mr. Holcombe,” said Mr. Graves, “that you are right, partly, anyhow.  Tim here did help a man with a boat that night—­”

“Threw him a rope, sir,” Tim broke in.  “He’d got out in the current, and what with the ice, and his not knowing much about a boat, he’d have kept on to New Orleans if I hadn’t caught him—­or Kingdom Come.”

“Exactly.  And what time did you say this was?”