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The venerable town marshal, Anderson Crow, sat in front of Lamson’s store one hot evening about a week after the advent of the mystery. He was the center of a thoughtful, speculative group of gentlemen representing the first families of Tinkletown. Among those present were: Alf Reesling, the town drunkard; Harry Squires, the reporter; Ed Higgins, the feed-store man; Justice of the Peace Robb; Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer; Situate M. Jones; and two or three others of less note. The shades of night had just descended; some of the gentlemen had already yawned three or four times.

“There ain’t no law against wearin’ a veil,” said the Marshal, reaching out just in time to pluck a nice red apple before Lamson’s clerk could make up his mind to do what he had come out of the store expressly to do–that is, to carry inside for the night the bushel basket containing, among other things, a plainly printed placard informing the public that “No. 1 Winesaps” were “2 for 5c.”

Crow inspected the apple critically for a moment, looking for a suitable place to begin; then, with his mouth full, he went on: “The only thing I got ag’inst her is that she’s settin’ a new style in Tinkletown. In the last two-three days I’ve seen more’n one of our fair sex lookin’ at veils in the Five an’ Ten Cent Store, and this afternoon I saw somebody I was sure was Sue Becker walkin’ up Maple Street with her head wrapped up in something as green as grass. Couldn’t see her face to save my soul, but I recognized her feet. My daughter Caroline was fixin’ herself up before the lookin’-glass last night, seein’ how she’d look in a veil, she said. It won’t be long before we won’t any of us be able to recognize our own wives an’ daughters when we meet ’em on the street.”

“My girl Queenie’s got a new pink one,” said Alf Reesling. “She made it out of some sort of stuff she wore over her graduatin’ dress three years ago.”

“Maybe she’s got a bad complexion,” ventured Mr. Jones.

“Who? My girl Queenie? Not on your–” began Alf, bristling.

“I mean the woman up at Mrs. Nixon’s,” explained Mr. Jones hastily.

Harry Squires had taken no part in the conversation up to this juncture. He had been ruminating. His inevitable–you might almost say, his indefatigable–pipe had gone out four or five times.

“Say, Anderson,” he broke in abruptly, “has it ever occurred to you that there might be something back of it that ought to be investigated?” The flare of the match he was holding over the bowl of his pipe revealed an eager twinkle in his eyes.

“There you go, talkin’ foolishness again,” said Anderson. “I guess there ain’t anything back of it ‘cept a face, an’ she’s got a right to have a face, ain’t she?”

“I mean the reason for wearing a veil that completely obscures her face–all the time. They say she never takes it off, even in the house.”

“Who told you that?”

“Angie Nixon. She says she believes she sleeps in it.”

“How does she deduce that?” demanded Anderson, idly fingering the badge of the New York Detective Association, which for obvious reasons,–it being a very hot night,–was attached to his suspenders.

“She deduced it through a keyhole,” replied Mr. Squires. “Angie was up at the cottage last night to get something she had left in an upstairs hall closet. She just happened to stoop over to pick up something on the floor right in front of Mrs. Smith’s door. The strangest thing occurred. She said it couldn’t occur again in a thousand years, not even if she tried to do it. Her left ear happened to stop not more than half an inch from the keyhole. She just couldn’t help hearing what Mrs. Smith said to her maid. Angie says she said, plain as anything: ‘You couldn’t blame me for sitting up all night, if you had to sleep in a thing like this.’ She didn’t hear anything more, because she hates eavesdropping. Besides, she thought she heard the maid walking toward the door. Now, what do you make of that, Mr. Hawkshaw?”