of the company, and I shall never forget his face when he met me that night with the significant words: "They know everything about me, everything about you too. They even know that I took all my clothes to your room before it happened. They are going to summon you to give evidence too."
I consulted with "old Louis," telling him the full story, but making no accusations. "Few people are worthy to live with," was his comment, "fewer still to share one's confidence. You must tell the truth as you know it. You have nothing to fear." I was searchingly examined by the company's lawyer and my evidence made, I saw, a good impression. No awkward leading questions were put. Brodie had been kind to me; I knew nothing definite against him; in his ignorance, which I described, he might well have thought his possessions were of value. It had nothing to do with me, at any rate, and there was a perfectly good explanation for his clothes being in my cupboard. None the less, it was a trying ordeal. Worse, however, was to follow. The fire marshal, recently appointed, a proverbial new broom, was out to put down the far too frequent arson in the city. Fire Marshal Mitchell--I see his face before me still--intended to prosecute.
This was a bombshell. My imaginative temperament then became, indeed, my curse. Waiting for the summons was like waiting for the verdict of a hostile jury. I waited many days, hope alternating with fear. I felt sure I was being watched the whole time. Brodie and I never met once. I changed my room about this time, though for reasons entirely disconnected with this unpleasant business (I had obtained a violin pupil in another house), and I wrote to the fire marshal informing him of my new address, in case, as I understood was probable, he might want my evidence.
But what really alarmed me most was my inside knowledge of New York justice. I had seen too many innocent men sent up; I had heard faked evidence in too
many police cases; I knew that, without a "pull," I stood
