It was bootless, of course, to try to speculate on where Captain Malone had found the clothes that Benjamin Franklin had worn and got blood on, especially with no help from Abigail Whitney. Having said he was livid at finding them neatly cleaned and pressed, she promptly dismissed both the subject and me.
“You may leave the door open, Dear Child,” she said, “I find the atmosphere of Philadelphia rather Oppressive at Times. But many people do, of course.”
I was glad to get up to my room and leave the door closed. And I had the feeling that if Sergeant Buck could forget his distaste of me sufficiently to ask me to tell Laurel she didn’t have to worry, it was of considerable importance. She had plenty to worry about already, and if, in the long night ahead of her, there was one point on whi
