"That concrete was just laid yesterday. It's soft." Miss Chalmers looked down at the path, then took a step forward as if to verify. Still unsatisfied, she tested the path once, twice, thrice, with her immaculate shoes. Then she turned and looked up at Mrs. Witherbee.
"Why, how stupid of me!" she exclaimed. "It is soft, isn't it?"
She moved toward the porch, treading again upon the slightly yielding surface. Then she stepped back upon the grass.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I'm afraid I've marked your path."
She paused to study the footprints. There were nine distinct impressions in the concrete. One was slightly deeper than its mates.
"They won't notice that little difference," she reflected. "But I hope to Heaven nobody took the trouble to observe that I stepped on the path only eight times."
Then she wandered off into the garden, with a remark upon the unexplained magnetism that wet paint, particularly when so labeled, exercises upon meddlesome fingers.
(Moral: In order to cover your trail be the first to discover it—and then multiply.)
"It's rather exacting work," thought Miss Chal—
Wait a minute! This eternal "Miss Chalmers" is tiresome. We've known her for at least twelve hours; we're going to know her much better. Nearly everybody else is calling her "Rosalind." Why stand aloof?