Crossing immediately to Mr. Moore’s side of the street, I encountered him as I had expected to do, at his own gateway.
“Well, what now?” he inquired, with the same exaggerated courtesy I had noticed in him on a previous occasion. “You have the air of a man bringing news. Has anything fresh happened in the old house?”
I assumed a frankness which seemed to impose on him.
“Do you know,” I sententiously informed him, “I have a wonderful interest in that old hearthstone; or rather in the seemingly innocent engraving hanging over it, of Benjamin Franklin at the Court of France. I tell you frankly that I had no idea of what would be found behind the picture.”
I saw, by his quick look, that I had stirred up a hornets’ nest. This was just what I had calculated to do.
“Behind it!” he repeated. “There is nothing behind it.”
I laughed, shrugged my shoulders, and backed slowly toward the door.
“Of course, you should know,” I retorted, with some condescension. Then, as if struck by a sudden remembrance: “Oh, by the way, have you been told that there is a window on that lower floor which does not stay fastened? I speak of it that you may have it repaired as soon as the police vacate. It’s the last one in the hall leading to the negro quarters. If you shake it hard enough, the catch falls back and any one can raise it even from the outside.”
“I will see to it,” he replied, dropping his eyes, possibly to hide their curious twinkle. “But what do you mean about finding something in the wall behind that old picture? I’ve never heard—”
But though he spoke quickly and shouted the last words after me at the top of his voice, I was by this time too far away to respond save by a dubious smile and a semi-patronizing wave of the hand. Not until I was nearly out of earshot did I venture to shout back the following words: