"Rosabel isn't here."
There was a short silence. Then: "Are you joking with me, Annie? If she isn't up yet, please tell her to—"
"Honest to goodness, Mrs. Vick, she's not here. I haven't seen her since day before yesterday."
"She said she was going over to spend the night with you. She left home about four yesterday. Oh, my goodness, I—I—is there any one else she might have,—I'm sure she said you, though, Annie. Can you think of any one else? She took her nightdress—and things."
"She always comes here, Mrs. Vick," said Annie, and felt a little chill creeping over her. "Still she may have gone to Mrs. Urline's. She and Hattie are good friends. Shall I call up and ask? I'll ring you up in a couple of minutes."
That was the beginning. Within the hour the whole of Windomville was talking about the strange disappearance of the pretty daughter of Amos Vick, across the river. Old Jim House, the handy-man at Dowd's Tavern, inserted his shaggy head through the dining-room door and informed the editor of the Sun in a far from ceremonious manner that he had an "item" for the paper.
"I'll be out as soon as I've finished breakfast," said Mr. Pollock.
"Well, you can't say I didn't tell ye," said Jim, and withdrew his head. "No wonder there ain't ever anything worth readin' in that pickerune paper of his, Maggie," he growled to Margaret Slattery. "If ever I DO subscribe for a paper, it's goin' to be one that's got some git up and go about it. Some Injinapolis er Cincinnaty paper, b'gosh. There's Link Pollock settin' in there eatin' pancakes while a girl is bein' missed from one end of the township to the other. Bill Foss has—"
"What girl?" demanded Margaret.
"That girl of Amos Vick's. They ain't seen hide er hair of her sence yesterday afternoon. Amos is over to the drug store, nearly crazy with suspicion. I got it all figgered out. One of two things has happened. She's either run off to get married er else she's been waylaid and—er—execrated by some tramp. Like as not the very feller that peeped in at Alix Crown's winder the other night. 'Twouldn't surprise me a particle if she was found some'eres er other with her head beat in or somethin'! And Link Pollock jest sits in there stuffin' pan—"