' It was more than a day, but from
the record it appears that well within a month Mr.
Deemer made it plain that he had not the leisure
to be dead.
One of Hillbrook's most respected citizens was
Alvan Creede, a banker. He lived in the finest house
in town, kept a carriage and was a most estimable
man variously. He knew something of the advan-
tages of travel, too, having been frequently in Boston,
and once, it was thought, in New York, though he
modestly disclaimed that glittering distinction. The
matter is mentioned here merely as a contribution
to an understanding of Mr. Creede's worth, for
either way it is creditable to him--to his intelli-
gence if he had put himself, even temporarily, into
contact with metropolitan culture; to his candour
if he had not.
One pleasant summer evening at about the hour
of ten Mr. Creede, entering at his garden gate,
passed up the gravel walk, which looked very white
in the moonlight, mounted the stone steps of his fine
house and pausing a moment inserted his latchkey
in the door. As he pushed this open he met his wife,
who was crossing the passage from the parlour to the
library. She greeted him pleasantly and pulling the
door farther back held it for him to enter. Instead,
he turned and, looking about his feet in front of the
threshold, uttered an exclamation of surprise.
'Why!--what the devil,' he said, 'has become
of that jug?'
'What jug, Alvan?' his wife inquired, not very
sympathetically.
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