Do you remember the old tavern on the Rushville
road? I believe they call it an inn now, or some such fancy name."
The judge sat quiet, but the sergeant who dared not peer too
closely, noticed a sudden constriction in the fingers of the hand
with which his host fingered a paper-cutter lying on the table
between them.
"The one where--"
"I respect your hesitation, judge. Yes, the one run by the man you
sentenced--"
A gesture had stopped him. He waited respectfully for the judge's
next words.
They came quickly and with stern and solemn emphasis.
"For a hideous and wholly unprovoked crime. Why do you mention it
and--and his tavern?"
"Because of something I have lately heard in its connection. You
know that the old house has been all made over since that time and
run as a place of resort for automobilists in search of light
refreshments. The proprietor's name is Yardley. We have nothing
against him; the place is highly respectable. But it harbours a
boarder, a permanent one, I believe, who has occasioned no little
comment. No one has ever seen her face; unless it is the
landlord's wife. She has all her meals served in her room, and
when she goes out she wears the purple dress and purple veil
you've been talking about. Perhaps she's your visitor of to-day.
Hadn't I better find out?"
"Has she a child? Is she a mother?"
"I haven't heard of any child, but Mrs. Yardley has seven."
The judge's hand withdrew from the table and for an instant the
room was so quiet that you could hear some far-off clock ticking
out the minutes.
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