“Jennie Brice was living on Monday morning, March the fifth,” he said firmly.

“Miss Shaeffer has testified that on Wednesday this woman, who you claim was Jennie Brice, sent a letter to you from Horner.  Is that the case?”

“Yes.”

“The letter was signed ’Jennie Brice’?”

“It was signed ‘J.B.’”

“Will you show the court that letter?”

“I destroyed it.”

“It was a personal letter?”

“It merely said she had arrived safely, and not to let any one know where she was.”

“And yet you destroyed it?”

“A postscript said to do so.”

“Why?”

“I do not know.  An extra precaution probably.”

“You were under the impression that she was going to stay there?”

“She was to have remained for a week.”

“And you have been searching for this woman for two months?”

He quailed, but his voice was steady.  “Yes,” he admitted.

He was telling the truth, even if it was not all the truth.  I believe, had it gone to the jury then, Mr. Ladley would have been acquitted.  But, late that afternoon, things took a new turn.  Counsel for the prosecution stated to the court that he had a new and important witness, and got permission to introduce this further evidence.  The witness was a Doctor Littlefield, and proved to be my one-night tenant of the second-story front.  Holcombe’s prisoner of the night before took the stand.  The doctor was less impressive in full daylight; he was a trifle shiny, a bit bulbous as to nose and indifferent as to finger-nails.  But his testimony was given with due professional weight.

“You are a doctor of medicine, Doctor Littlefield?” asked the district attorney.

“Yes.”

“In active practise?”

“I have a Cure for Inebriates in Des Moines, Iowa.  I was formerly in general practise in New York City.”

“You knew Jennie Ladley?”

“I had seen her at different theaters.  And she consulted me professionally at one time in New York.”

“You operated on her, I believe?”

“Yes.  She came to me to have a name removed.  It had been tattooed over her heart.”

“You removed it?”

“Not at once.  I tried fading the marks with goat’s milk, but she was impatient.  On the third visit to my office she demanded that the name be cut out.”

“You did it?”

“Yes.  She refused a general anesthetic and I used cocaine.  The name was John—­I believe a former husband.  She intended to marry again.”

A titter ran over the court room.  People strained to the utmost are always glad of an excuse to smile.  The laughter of a wrought-up crowd always seems to me half hysterical.

“Have you seen photographs of the scar on the body found at Sewickley?  Or the body itself?”

“No, I have not.”

“Will you describe the operation?”