Phillida turned it out again without comment.
“Nothing that you saw can make any difference to me,” she sighed.
“Do you remember my saying there must be another man in these—mysteries?”
“I think I do. What difference does it make? Besides, the man you meant is in prison.”
“He isn’t!”
“You said he was?”
“He was let out early this morning! Let me light the gas while you read it for yourself.”
But Phillida had no desire to read it for herself. “I doubt if there’s anything in that,” she said; “but what if there were? Does it make it any better if a man has an accomplice in his crimes? If he’s guilty at all, it makes it all the worse.”
CHAPTER XIX.
THE FOURTH CASE
The boy and girl sat long and late in the open window at the back of the house. The room would have been in darkness but for a flood of moonlight pouring over them. The only light in the house was in the room above, and they only saw its glimmer on the garden when a casual cloud hid the moon; but once Pocket had crept out into the garden to steal a look at the lighted window itself; and what he saw was the shadow of a huge bent head smoking a huge bent pipe, and dense clouds of shadow floating up the wall and over the ceiling.