Part 4 (1/2)

”She didn't say she was coming back to rehea.r.s.e for next week's piece?”

”Her husband said she went away for a few days' rest. He went away about noon and hasn't come back. That's all I know, except that they owe me three weeks' rent that I'd like to get hold of.”

The owner of the voice hung up the receiver with a snap, and left me pondering. It seemed to me that Mr. Ladley had been very reckless. Did he expect any one to believe that Jennie Brice had gone for a vacation without notifying the theater? Especially when she was to rehea.r.s.e that week? I thought it curious, to say the least. I went back and told Mr. Holcombe, who put it down in his note-book, and together we went to the Ladleys' room.

The room was in better order than usual, as I have said. The bed was made--which was out of the ordinary, for Jennie Brice never made a bed--but made the way a man makes one, with the blankets wrinkled and crooked beneath, and the white counterpane pulled smoothly over the top, showing every lump beneath. I showed Mr. Holcombe the splasher, dotted with ink as usual.

”I'll take it off and soak it in milk,” I said. ”It's his fountain pen; when the ink doesn't run, he shakes it, and--”

”Where's the clock?” said Mr. Holcombe, stopping in front of the mantel with his note-book in his hand.

”The clock?”

I turned and looked. My onyx clock was gone from the mantel-shelf.

Perhaps it seems strange, but from the moment I missed that clock my rage at Mr. Ladley increased to a fury. It was all I had had left of my former gentility. When times were hard and I got behind with the rent, as happened now and then, more than once I'd been tempted to sell the clock, or to p.a.w.n it. But I had never done it. Its ticking had kept me company on many a lonely night, and its elegance had helped me to keep my pride and to retain the respect of my neighbors.

For in the flood district onyx clocks are not plentiful. Mrs. Bryan, the saloon-keeper's wife, had one, and I had another. That is, I _had_ had.

I stood staring at the mark in the dust of the mantel-shelf, which Mr.

Holcombe was measuring with a pocket tape-measure.

”You are sure you didn't take it away yourself, Mrs. Pitman?” he asked.

”Sure? Why, I could hardly lift it,” I said.

He was looking carefully at the oblong of dust where the clock had stood. ”The key is gone, too,” he said, busily making entries in his note-book. ”What was the maker's name?”

”Why, I don't think I ever noticed.”

He turned to me angrily. ”Why didn't you notice?” he snapped. ”Good G.o.d, woman, do you only use your eyes to cry with? How can you wind a clock, time after time, and not know the maker's name? It proves my contention: the average witness is totally unreliable.”

”Not at all,” I snapped, ”I am ordinarily both accurate and observing.”

”Indeed!” he said, putting his hands behind him. ”Then perhaps you can tell me the color of the pencil I have been writing with.”

”Certainly. Red.” Most pencils are red, and I thought this was safe.

But he held his right hand out with a flourish. ”I've been writing with a fountain pen,” he said in deep disgust, and turned his back on me.

But the next moment he had run to the wash-stand and pulled it out from the wall. Behind it, where it had fallen, lay a towel, covered with stains, as if some one had wiped b.l.o.o.d.y hands on it. He held it up, his face working with excitement. I could only cover my eyes.

”This looks better,” he said, and began making a quick search of the room, running from one piece of furniture to another, pulling out bureau drawers, drawing the bed out from the wall, and crawling along the base-board with a lighted match in his hand. He gave a shout of triumph finally, and reappeared from behind the bed with the broken end of my knife in his hand.

”Very clumsy,” he said. ”_Very_ clumsy. Peter the dog could have done better.”

I had been examining the wall-paper about the wash-stand. Among the ink-spots were one or two reddish ones that made me s.h.i.+ver. And seeing a sc.r.a.p of note-paper stuck between the base-board and the wall, I dug it out with a hairpin, and threw it into the grate, to be burned later. It was by the merest chance there was no fire there. The next moment Mr. Holcombe was on his knees by the fireplace reaching for the sc.r.a.p.

”_Never_ do that, under such circ.u.mstances,” he snapped, fis.h.i.+ng among the ashes. ”You might throw away valuable--h.e.l.lo, Howell!”

I turned and saw a young man in the doorway, smiling, his hat in his hand. Even at that first glance, I liked Mr. Howell, and later, when every one was against him, and many curious things were developing, I stood by him through everything, and even helped him to the thing he wanted more than anything else in the, world. But that, of course, was later.