The Case of Jennie Brice

y the next day, Tuesday. Mr. Graves telephoned me

f excursion, like nickelodeons or watching the circus put up its tents. I have heard them th

I thought the nails looked like those of Jennie Brice. The thumb-nail of one was broken short off. I

t reached from the center of the chest for about six inches across the left

aid she had never heard of one, and Mr. Ladley himself, at the inquest, swore that his wife had had nothing of the sort. I

lieve that his wife was dead, and less reason to think she had been drowned; she had left him in a rage, and if

age, a Mrs. Murray, whose daughter, a stenographer, had disappeared, attended the inquest. But her daughter had had no such scar, and had worn

into the river after death. There was no water in the lungs. The

t away a tracing of the scar. All the way home in the street-car he stared at the drawing, holding first one eye

r husband killed her, probably by strangling her; he took the body out in th

think he str

on the body, and no

ed her, where did t

ngulation," he said irritably.

ock," I added with a sigh. For

is," he said. "It shows you were right-that the clock was there whe

m not a crying woman, but I could hardly see my mother's picture for tears.-Well, af

r, and a red and black hat, without her fur coat, which she had worn all winter. She had gone very early in the morning, or during the night. How had she gone? Mr. Ladley said he had rowed her to Federal Street at half after six and had brought the boat back. After they had quarreled violently all night, and when s

; there was something big about her, something that is found often in large women-a lack o

were taking long chances. They had no strong motive for the crime. As Mr. Holcombe said, they had provocation, but not motive, which is different. Th

e stood on Tuesday nigh

suit case, and whistled while it was being done. He requested to be allowed to walk to the jai

was almost overcome. He took the manuscript of his play with him, and I remember his asking if he could have any typing done in the jail. I had never

ing-room table drinking it, when the bell rang. It was Mr. Howell! He half staggered into

ou want him," I said. I

he said.

ja

one hand with the forefinger of the other. He was dirty and un

nd turning, was about to go out the front do

l," I said. "You'd bett

andkerchief out and wiped his face

cup of tea, and a slic

an," he said. "I suppose I'd better throw a little fuel into

him still eating, and me still cutting and spreading. Now that I had a chance to see him, I was shocked. The rims of his eyes were

canned him

ugh, too,

. "Mrs. Pitman," he said earnestly, "I don't like him

dy kill

w? How do you k

t, of course-

d a crime. They can't hold a m

ing it," I retorted. "If the woman

e mirror over the sideboard, and brushed back his hair. "I look bad enough," h

sked, as we started out. He turned

centuries. She-she is the only girl in the world for me, Mrs. Pitman, alth

I answered. "Her m

He looked at

" I said, putting the best fa

she ever allows me to see her aga

hing, Mr. Howell," I said,

eyes and then th

questions. I guess there are some curi

m. He had not gone so far as the parlor

hite tulips. That night I hung my mother's picture over the mantel in the dining-room, and put the tuli