“He never did nothing,” she said, “but I hearn tell dreadful things that's gone on of nights,—how Doddridge Knapp or his ghost was seen killing a Chinaman over at North Beach, while Doddridge Knapp or his ghost,—whichever was the other one,—was speaking at a meeting, at the Pavilion. And I hearn of his drinkin' blood—”
“Nonsense!” said I; “where did you get such stories?”
“Well, they're told me for true, and by ones I believe,” she said stoutly. “Oh, there's queer things goes on. Doddridge Knapp or the devil, it's all one. But it's ill saying things of them that can be in two places at once.” And the old dame looked nervously about her. “They've hushed things up in the papers, and fixed the police, but people have tongues.”
I wondered what mystification had given rise to these absurd reports, but there was nothing to be gained by pursuing them. The killing of the Chinaman might have been something to my hand, but if Doddridge Knapp had such a perfect alibi it was a waste of time to look into it.
“And is this all you know?” I asked in disappointment.
Mother Borton tried to remember some other point.
“I don't see how it's going to keep a knife from between my ribs,” I complained.
“You keep out of the way of Tom Terrill and his hounds, and you'll be all right, I reckon.”
“Am I supposed to be the head man in this business?”
“Yes.”