Holcombe wrote a note, and sent it off with
Terry, and 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.
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