It was the taxi which he used to go out to his sister’s. “I’ll give you a ride, this time,” the driver said. “Much obliged,” Horace said. He got in. When the car entered the square, the court-house clock said only twenty minutes past eight, yet there was no light in the hotel room window. “Maybe the child’s asleep,” Horace said. He said, “If you’ll just drop me at the hotel—” Then he found that the driver was watching him, with a kind of discreet curiosity. “You been out of town today,” the driver said. “Yes,” Horace said. “What is it? What happened here today?” “She aint staying at the hotel anymore. I heard Mrs Walker taken her in at the jail.” “Oh,” Horace said. “I’ll get out at the hotel.” The lobby was empty. After a moment the proprietor appeared: a tight, iron-gray man with a toothpick, his vest open upon a neat paunch. The woman was not there. “It’s these church ladies,” he said. He lowered his voice, the toothpick in his fingers.
