“There is a drug store on the corner,” I said.  “We can stop in there.  No doubt they’ll think we are looking for board.”

“An excellent idea.”

We walked down to the drug store.  On entering, Mr. Harrison ordered a couple of glasses of soda water and then called the proprietor aside.

“Can you tell me anything about the lady that keeps the boarding-house below here?” he asked.

“Which one?”

“Mrs. Agatha Mitts.”

“I’ve heard it’s a very good house,” was the noncommittal reply.

“You know the lady?”

“She comes in here once in a while for drugs.”

“May I ask what kind of a woman she is?”

“Well, she’s good enough in her way, though rather eccentric.  I understand she furnishes good board, however.  She has kept the house for many years.”

“Has she many boarders?”

“Eight or ten.  She used to have more.  But they were rather a lively set and hurt the reputation of the place.”

Mr. Harrison paid for the soda, and a second later we quitted the place.

“Not much information gained there,” said my Chicago friend, when we were once again on the street.

“One thing is certain,” I replied.  “She is the right party.  It would never have done to have tackled the wrong person.”

“I guess the best thing for us to do is to call on the woman without waiting further.”

“So I think.”

“She may be a very hard person to manage.  Strong, you must be careful of what you say.”

“I shall, Mr. Harrison,” I replied.  “But that woman must do what is right or go to prison.”

“I agree with you.”

Ascending the steps of the house, I rang the bell.  A tidy Irish girl answered the summons.

“Is Mrs. Agatha Mitts in?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“We would like to see her.”

“Will you please step into the parlor?” went on the girl, and we did so.

“Who shall I say it is?”

“Mr. Harrison,” put in my Western friend.

“Yes, sir.”

The girl disappeared.  My heart beat strongly.  It seemed to me as if life and death hung upon the meeting that was to follow.

CHAPTER XXXIV

 Mrs. Agatha.  Mitts

I could not help but wonder, as I sat in the parlor with my friend Mr. Harrison, waiting for the appearance of Mrs. Agatha Mitts, what kind of a person the keeper of the boarding-house would prove to be.

For some reason the name suggested to me a tall, gaunt female with sharp features; and I was taken by surprise when a short, dumpy woman, with a round face, came wobbling in and asked what was wanted.

“This is Mrs. Agatha Mitts?” asked Mr. Harrison, as he arose.

“Yes, sir.  And you are Mr. Harrison, I suppose.  I don’t remember you.”

“I didn’t think you would,” laughed my friend from Chicago.  “I am from the West, and have never before been in Brooklyn.”