he expect any one to believe that Jennie Brice had gone for a vacation
without notifying the theater? Especially when she was to rehearse
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 pawn 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.