“No,” answered Wade, gravely, “not our common.  That piece of lilac, Zephania, is a clue; at least, I think it is.  Do you know what a clue is?”

“Yes, sir.  It’s something you find that puts you on the trail of the murderer.”  Zephania eyed the lilac interestedly.

“Well, something of that sort.  Only in this case there isn’t any murderer.”

“A thief?” asked Zephania, eagerly and hopefully.

“Not even a thief,” laughed Wade.  “Just—­just somebody I want very much to find.  I suppose, Zephania, you know about every one in the village, don’t you?”

“Pretty nearly, I guess.”

“Good.  Now suppose you tell me something about my neighbors.  Every one ought to know about his neighbors, eh?”

“Yes, sir.  After you’ve been here some time, though, you’ll know all about them.”

“Yes, but the trouble is I don’t want to wait that long.  Now, for instance, who lives over there on my left; the square white house with the drab blinds?”

“Miss Cousins, sir.  She’s a maiden lady and has a great deal of money.  They say she owns some of the railroad.  She plays the organ in church, and—­”

“Youngish, is she, with sort of wavy brown hair and—­”

“No, sir,” Zephania tittered, “Miss Cousins is kind of old and has real gray hair.”

“Really?  On my other side, then, who’s my neighbor there?  Or haven’t I one?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” answered Zephania, eagerly.  “That’s the Walton house, and that’s—­”

“The—­what?” asked Wade, sitting up very suddenly in the green rep rocker.

“The Walton house, sir.”

“Oh!  Hum!  And—­er—­who lives there, Zephania?”

“Miss Walton and Miss Mullett.”

“What’s this Miss—­Miss Walton like?  Is she rather stout with quite black hair, Zephania?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Herring!  I guess you saw Mrs. Sampson, the dressmaker.  She lives over there across the common, in the little yellowish house with the vines; see?”

“Yes, yes, I see.  That’s where Miss Sampson lives, eh?  Well, well!  But we were speaking about Miss Walton, weren’t we?”

“Yes, sir.  Miss Walton’s a young lady and as pretty as—­as—­” Zephania’s words failed her and she looked about apparently in search of a simile.

“Now let’s see what you call pretty,” said Wade.  “What color is her hair?”

“It’s brown.”

“Oh, well, brown hair isn’t uncommon.”

“No, sir, but hers is kind of wavy and light and I don’t believe she ever has to curl it.”

“You don’t tell me!  And her eyes, now?  I suppose they’re brown too?”

“Blue, sir.  She has beautiful eyes, Mr. Herring, just heavenly!  Sometimes I think I’d just give almost anything if my eyes were like hers.”

“Really?  But you seem to have a very good pair of your own.  Don’t trouble you, do they?”

“They’re black,” said Zephania, cheerfully.  “Black eyes aren’t pretty.”