bounding almost to our feet, and a slight but muscular figure was seen retreating swiftly into the dusk.
Solon sprang for the mysterious object. It was a stone, about which was wrapped a sheet of paper. This he took off and smoothed out. By the fading light we made out to read: "Meet me at graveyard steps at midnight. You know who."
We looked at each other. "Why didn't he come inhere?" I asked.
"That wouldn't have been detective-like."
"But the graveyard at midnight!"
"Well, perhaps he won't hold out for midnight—Billy is merely poetic at times—and maybe if we hurry along, we can catch up with him and have it out by the marble works there instead of going clear on to the cemetery. Perhaps that will be near enough in the right spirit for Billy."
Quickly we made ready for the desperate assignation, pulling our hats well down, in a way that we thought Billy would approve.
Four blocks along the street, by rapid walking, we came within hail of the intrepid young detective. We were also opposite the marble yard of Cornelius Lawson, who wrought monuments for the dead of Little Arcady. In front of the shop were a dozen finished and half-finished stones, ghostly white in the dusk. It seemed indeed to be a spot impressive enough to meet even Billy's captious requirements, but we had underrated the demands of his artist's conscience. Solon called to him.
