I got out the cuff-link and went with it to the pantry. Thomas
was wiping silver and the air was heavy with tobacco smoke. I
sniffed and looked around, but there was no pipe to be seen.

"Thomas," I said, "you have been smoking."

"No, ma'm." He was injured innocence itself. "It's on my coat,
ma'm. Over at the club the gentlemen--"

But Thomas did not finish. The pantry was suddenly filled with
the odor of singeing cloth. Thomas gave a clutch at his coat,
whirled to the sink, filled a tumbler with water and poured it
into his right pocket with the celerity of practice.

"Thomas," I said, when he was sheepishly mopping the floor,
"smoking is a filthy and injurious habit. If you must smoke, you
must; but don't stick a lighted pipe in your pocket again. Your
skin's your own: you can blister it if you like. But this house
is not mine, and I don't want a conflagration. Did you ever see
this cuff-link before?"

No, he never had, he said, but he looked at it oddly.

"I picked it up in the hall," I added indifferently. The old
man's eyes were shrewd under his bushy eyebrows.

"There's strange goin's-on here, Mis' Innes," he said, shaking
his head. "Somethin's goin' to happen, sure. You ain't took
notice that the big clock in the hall is stopped, I reckon?"