Just then the bishop brought his glass over to the spring.

“Hot this time, Minnie,” he said.  “Do you know, I’m getting the mineral-water habit, Patty!  I’m afraid plain water will have no attraction for me after this.”

He put his hand over hers on the rail.  They were old friends, the bishop and the Jenningses.

“Well, how goes it to-day with the father?” he said in a low tone, and smiling.

Miss Patty shrugged her shoulders.  “Worse, if possible.”

“I thought so,” he said cheerfully.  “If state of mind is any criterion I should think he has had a relapse.  A little salt, Minnie.”  Miss Patty stood watching him while he tasted it.

“Bishop,” she said suddenly, “will you do something for me?”

“I always have, Patty.”  He was very fond of Miss Patty, was the bishop.

“Then—­to-night, not later than eight o’clock, get father to play cribbage, will you?  And keep him in the card-room until nine.”

“Another escapade!” he said, pretending to be very serious.  “Patty, Patty, you’ll be the death of me yet.  Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?”

“Certainly not,” said Miss Patty.  “Just a dear, slightly bald, but still very distinguished slave!”

The bishop picked up her left hand and looked at the ring and from that to her face.

“There will be plenty of slaves to kiss this little hand, where you are going, my child,” he said.  “Sometimes I wish that some nice red-blooded boy here at home—­but I dare say it will turn out surprisingly well as it is.”

“Bishop, Bishop!” Mrs. Moody called.  “How naughty of you, and with your bridge hand waiting to be held!”

He carried his glass back to the table, stopping for a moment beside Mr. Jennings.

“If Patty becomes any more beautiful,” he said, “I shall be in favor of having her wear a mask.  How are we young men to protect ourselves?”

“Pretty is as pretty does!” declared Mr. Jennings from behind his newspaper, and Miss Patty went out with her chin up.

Well, I knew Mr. Dick had been up to some mischief; I had suspected it all along.  But Miss Patty went to bed, and old Mrs. Hutchins, who’s a sort of lady’s-maid-companion of hers, said she mustn’t be disturbed.  I was pretty nearly sick myself.  And when Mr. Sam came out at five o’clock and said he’d been in the long-distance telephone booth for an hour and had called everybody who had ever known Mr. Dick, and that he had dropped right off the earth, I just about gave up.  He had got some detectives, he said, and there was some sort of a story about his having kept right on the train to Salem, Ohio, but if he had they’d lost the trail there, and anyhow, with the railroad service tied up by the storm there wasn’t much chance of his getting to Finleyville in time.

Luckily Mr. Stitt was in bed with a mustard leaf over his stomach and ice on his head, and didn’t know whether it was night or morning.  But Thoburn was going around with a watch in his hand, and Mr. Sam was for killing him and burying the body in the snow.