Part 9 (1/2)

”--you took the clock to the attic and put it, say, in an old trunk.”

”I did nothing of the sort. I went in, as you say, and I put up an old splasher, because of the way he throws ink about. Then I wound the clock, put the key under it, and went out.”

”And the key is gone, too!” he said thoughtfully. ”I wish I could find that clock, Mrs. Pitman.”

”So do I.”

”Ladley went out Sunday afternoon about three, didn't he--and got back at five?”

I turned and looked at him. ”Yes, Mr. Howell,” I said. ”Perhaps _you_ know something about that.”

”I?” He changed color. Twenty years of dunning boarders has made me pretty sharp at reading faces, and he looked as uncomfortable as if he owed me money. ”I!” I knew then that I had been right about the voice.

It had been his.

”You!” I retorted. ”You were here Sunday morning and spent some time with the Ladleys. I am the old she-devil. I notice you didn't tell your friend, Mr. Holcombe, about having been here on Sunday.”

He was quick to recover. ”I'll tell you all about it, Mrs. Pitman,”

he said smilingly. ”You see, all my life, I have wished for an onyx clock. It has been my ambition, my _Great Desire_. Leaving the house that Sunday morning, and hearing the ticking of the clock up-stairs, I recognized that it was an _onyx_ clock, clambered from my boat through an upper window, and so reached it. The clock showed fight, but after stunning it with a chair--”

”Exactly!” I said. ”Then the thing Mrs. Ladley said she would not do was probably to wind the clock?”

He dropped his bantering manner at once. ”Mrs. Pitman,” he said, ”I don't know what you heard or did not hear. But I want you to give me a little time before you tell anybody that I was here that Sunday morning. And, in return, I'll find your clock.”

I hesitated, but however put out he was, he didn't look like a criminal. Besides, he was a friend of my niece's, and blood is thicker even than flood-water.

”There was nothing wrong about my being here,” he went on, ”but--I don't want it known. Don't spoil a good story, Mrs. Pitman.”

I did not quite understand that, although those who followed the trial carefully may do so. Poor Mr. Howell! I am sure he believed that it was only a good story. He got the description of my onyx clock and wrote it down, and I gave him the ma.n.u.script for Mr. Ladley. That was the last I saw of him for some time.

That Thursday proved to be an exciting day. For late in the afternoon Terry, digging the mud out of the cellar, came across my missing gray false front near the coal vault, and brought it up, grinning. And just before six, Mr. Graves, the detective, rang the bell and then let himself in. I found him in the lower hall, looking around.

”Well, Mrs. Pitman,” he said, ”has our friend come back yet?”

”She was no friend of mine.”

”Not _she_. Ladley. He'll be out this evening, and he'll probably be around for his clothes.”

I felt my knees waver, as they always did when he was spoken of.

”He may want to stay here,” said Mr. Graves. ”In fact, I think that's just what he _will_ want.”

”Not here,” I protested. ”The very thought of him makes me quake.”

”If he comes here, better take him in. I want to know where he is.”

I tried to say that I wouldn't have him, but the old habit of the ward a.s.serted itself. From taking a bottle of beer or a slice of pie, to telling one where one might or might not live, the police were autocrats in that neighborhood. And, respectable woman that I am, my neighbors' fears of the front office have infected me.

”All right, Mr. Graves,” I said.