nd borrowing my boots, which had been Mr. Pitman's,
investigated the dining-room and kitchen from a floating plank; the
doors were too narrow to admit the boat. But he found nothing more
important than a rolling-pin. He was not at all depressed by his
failure. He came back, drenched to the skin, about three, and asked
permission to search the Ladleys' bedroom.

"I have a friend coming pretty soon, Mrs. Pitman," he said, "a young
newspaper man, named Howell. He's a nice boy, and if there is anything
to this, I'd like him to have it for his paper. He and I have been
having some arguments about circumstantial evidence, too, and I know
he'd like to work on this."

I gave him a pair of Mr. Pitman's socks, for his own were saturated,
and while he was changing them the telephone rang. It was the theater
again, asking for Jennie Brice.

"You are certain she is out of the city?" some one asked, the same
voice as in the morning.

"Her husband says so."

"Ask him to come to the phone."

"He is not here."

"When do you expect him back?"

"I'm not sure he is coming back."

"Look here," said the voice angrily, "can't you give me any
satisfaction? Or don't you care to?"

"I've told you all I know."

"You don't know where she is?"

"No, sir."

"She didn't say she was coming back to rehearse for next week's
piece?"

"Her husband said she went away for a few days' rest. He went away
about noon and hasn't come back. That's all I know, except that they
owe me three weeks' rent that I'd like to get hold of."

The owner of the voice hung up the receiver with a snap, and left me
pondering. It seemed to me that Mr. Ladley had been very reckless. Did
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,