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atropine; third, they’d make the whole thing look like some kind of an accident, and perhaps keep us on that tack—where we still are, come to think of it.”
    â€œThere’s another reason, of course—atropine confuses, and makes the wits to wander. Nobody quite knows whether Tommy Ormiston really saw a lady in a car, or merely dreamed it. There may be other reasons still.”
    â€œYou said the children had something else in common.”
    â€œThey were alone that morning by the merest chance. Sarah Beasley had no fixed time for visiting her cats, and no exclusive rights in the barn. Tommy Ormiston was abandoned on his sand pile for an hour because it was moving day; the rest of the family was engaged elsewhere; and Mr. Breck happened to have closed the shutters, so that he could not be watched or overlooked from the front windows. Julia Bartram was left alone in her summerhouse for about the same length of time, because of an unprecedented family occasion—the unexpected arrival of her uncle, aunt and cousin from Europe. Her case is also complicated by the fact that the extra help which had been engaged arrived late; otherwise, the nurse would not have stayed so long in the kitchen.
    â€œWe are confronted with coincidence, here; unless we accept the theory that the nightshade was distributed by somebody whose wits were in good working order, and who was to some extent acquainted with these households, their habits and their plans.”
    Mitchell shook his head. “I tell you there ain’t any motive in the world that could include the Bartrams, and the Ormistons, and the Beasleys.”
    â€œI’m inclined to agree with you. Let us suppose then that one of these children was to be eliminated, for reasons of gain, revenge, we know not what; the others were therefore given the berries for purposes of camouflage—to distract our attention from the family under attack.”
    â€œThe Beasleys were camouflage, then. They just haven’t got an enemy in the world, and nobody has anything to gain by poisoning one of their children. We know all about the Beasleys.”
    â€œWho knows all about anyone? I’m inclined to think you’re right, though; the Beasleys look very much like camouflage, poor souls.”
    Mitchell sucked gloomily at his pipe. “Well,” he said, “I asked you to come up and meet the families.”
    â€œBut why should they meekly submit to meeting me?”
    â€œLoring knows who you are, and he’s told the Bartrams; they want to see you.”
    â€œHow about the distinguished Ormiston?”
    â€œHe’s heard of you, too. He said I could bring you along.”
    Gamadge looked at Mitchell rather wanly. “I sometimes wish,” he said, “that I did not feel myself under an obligation to you, my dear Mr. Mitchell.”
    â€œYou ain’t; but if you was, you’d work it all off between now and Sunday night.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    The Companion of Sirius

    â€œW E’LL START WITH the gypsies.” Mitchell turned his car out of the Burnside precincts, and drove south. “Then we’ll go to the Bartrams, by way of the short cut; from there to Harper’s Rocks, and around to the Beasley farm.”
    The tall pines of the gypsy encampment towered ahead of them, and on their left a narrow dirt road wound between cornfields, and disappeared into the dark mouth of the woods beyond. Mitchell stopped.
    â€œHere’s the entrance to the short cut,” he said. “Trainor used to take this way home, sometimes, when he was bound for headquarters. He reported there before he went off duty.”
    â€œWhat time?”
    â€œNo special time—usually about seven. He was late on Tuesday, account of all the extra trips to Beasley’s. He was seen about seven fifteen, out Bailtown way—his regular beat. He lived in Oakport, and they were expecting him there for his supper. Cogswell says he