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
God, 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.