K — Mary Roberts Rinehart

It was the bete noir of a playwright, an ensemble; K. Le Moyne and Sidney, Palmer Howe, Christine, Tillie, the younger Wilson, Joe, even young Rosenfeld, all within speaking distance, almost touching distance, gathered within and about the little house on a side street which K. at first grimly and now tenderly called "home." . . . Sitting just inside the door on a straight chair was Sidney-such a Sidney as he never had seen before, her face colorless, her eyes wide and unseeing, her hands clenched in her lap . . . "They say I poisoned him." Her voice was dreary, inflectionless. K. is one of Mary Roberts Rineharts earlier novels that weaves a mystery around the characters on the Street; it could be any street; especially in Pittsburgh.