Zizi, watching her closely, and with loving care, slipped her little brown paw into Olive’s hand, and noted with satisfaction the faint answering smile.
“Perhaps,” Olive said, after a thoughtful pause, “it is as well, then, that Uncle Amos did not—did not live to be—disgraced.”
“It is,” said Wise, gravely; “he would have faced a Federal prison had it all been discovered while he lived. That will be Rodman’s fate,—if he is not held for the crime of murder. But I think he will not be. For his alibi clears him and it was to escape the graver charge that he has told so much of the spy business.”
“And so,” I said, “we are as far as ever from the discovery of the murderer?”
“You never can tell,” Wise returned; “it may be we are on the very eve of solving the mystery. Rivers is on the warpath——”
“I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Wise,” Olive broke in, “that Mr. Rivers was here this morning, and he seems to have a slight glimmer of returning memory.”
“He has? Good! Then it will all come back to him. I’ve been looking up this aphasia-amnesia business, and quite often when the patient begins to recover his memory, it all comes back to him with a bang! Where is Rivers?”
“He went away—I don’t know where——” Olive’s lips quivered, and so plainly did she show her feelings that we all saw at once she feared that Rivers had fled, because of his returning memory.
“It’s all right,” declared Zizi, stanchly; “Mr. Rivers is white clear through! He’ll come back, soon, and he’ll bring the paper he’s after.”
“What paper?” demanded Wise.