Miss Letitia’s sardonic chuckle came through the door.
“Vinegar,” she said with scorn. “Next thing you’ll be telling me it’s vinegar that Harry and Mr. Knox carry around in little boxes in their pockets. You’ve pinned my cap to my scalp.”
I hurried downstairs to find Davidson gone. My blanket lay neatly folded, on the lower step, and the horsehair chairs were ranged along the wall as before. I looked around anxiously for the telltale ashes, but there was none, save, at the edge of the spotless register, a trace. Evidently they had followed the apple parings. It grew cold a day or so later, and Miss Letitia had the furnace fired, and although it does not belong to my story, she and Heppie searched the house over to account for the odor of baking apples—a mystery that was never explained.
