"
"Then if he strangled her, where did the blood come from?"
"I didn't limit myself to strangulation," he said irritably. "He may
have cut her throat."
"Or brained her with my onyx clock," I added with a sigh. For I missed
the clock more and more.
He went down in his pockets and brought up a key. "I'd forgotten
this," he said. "It shows you were right--that the clock was there
when the Ladleys took the room. I found this in the yard this
morning."
It was when I got home from the inquest that I found old Isaac's
basket waiting. I am not a crying woman, but I could hardly see my
mother's picture for tears.--Well, after all, that is not the Brice
story. I am not writing the sordid tragedy of my life.
That was on Tuesday. Jennie Brice had been missing nine days. In all
that time, although she was cast for the piece at the theater that
week, no one there had heard from her. Her relatives had had no word.
She had gone away, if she had gone, on a cold March night, in a
striped black and white dress with a red collar, and a red and black
hat, without her fur coat, which she had worn all winter.
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