"I believe you told me to-night that you have a habit of wandering around the hills?"
"Yes, I 've done that—I do it right along—I 've done it ever since my husband and I split up—that was just a little while after the boy was born—"
"Sufficient. I merely wanted to establish that fact. In wandering about, did you ever see anything, twenty-three or four years ago or so, that would lead you to believe you know something about the death of this man whose demise we are inquiring?"
The big hand of Harry caught at Fairchild's arm. The old woman had raised her head, craning her neck and allowing her mouth to fall open, as she strove for words. At last:
"I know something. I know a lot. But I 've never figured it was anybody's business but my own. So I have n't told it. But I remember—"
"What, Mrs. Rodaine?"
"The day Sissie Larsen was supposed to leave town—that was the day he got killed."
"Do you remember the date?"
"No—I don't remember that."
"Would it be in your book?"