“No. You put it in your bag when we left home; and if it isn’t there, then I don’t know where it is.”
“Well, it isn’t there.”
“Look again, Nanny,” advised Jeanette; for Nan was always losing things, and then discovering them in some odd corner. When she came out of the bathroom, however, a distressed, pale-faced Nancy was bending over the contents of her bag, which she had turned out on the dresser.
“I’ve looked everywhere, Janie; and it simply isn’t anywhere. I must have pulled it out of my bag with a handkerchief, or tickets, or something, and lost it. What shall I do?”
“It’s lucky you put your night things in with mine, so you can get along without your case to-night.”
Jeanette was carrying a hat box, besides her suitcase; and the girls had used it in common, so as not to have to unpack everything at each stop.
“Yes,” wailed Nancy, “but I haven’t a dress to wear to church to-morrow; or a hat.”
“Well, we’ll try to have it opened; but if we can’t, you’ll just have to wear what you wore to-day,” replied Jeanette, going to the telephone.
The hotel locksmith came up; and, after working for some time, he said that much as he hated to do it, he’d have to force the locks.
“And don’t close that,” he advised them on leaving the room, “until you are sure you want it closed; for it may lock again.”