Beyond making an attempt to get bail, and failing, he had done
nothing. Asked about his wife, he merely shrugged his shoulders
and said she had left him, and would turn up all right. He was
unconcerned: smoked cigarettes all day, ate and slept well, and looked
better since he had had nothing to drink. And two or three days after
the arrest, he sent for the manuscript of his play.

Mr. Howell came for it on the Thursday of that week.

I was on my knees scrubbing the parlor floor, when he rang the bell. I
let him in, and it seemed to me that he looked tired and pale.

"Well, Mrs. Pitman," he said, smiling, "what did you find in the
cellar when the water went down?"

"I'm glad to say that I didn't find what I feared, Mr. Howell."

"Not even the onyx clock?"

"Not even the clock," I replied. "And I feel as if I'd lost a friend.
A clock is a lot of company."

"Do you know what I think?" he said, looking at me closely. "I
think you put that clock away yourself, in the excitement, and have
forgotten all about it."

"Nonsense."

"Think hard." He was very much in earnest. "You knew the water was