"—you took the clock to the attic and put it, say, in an old trunk."
"I did nothing of the sort. I went in, as you say, and I put up an old splasher, because of the way he throws ink about. Then I wound the clock, put the key under it, and went out."
"And the key is gone, too!" he said thoughtfully. "I wish I could find that clock, Mrs. Pitman."
"So do I."
"Ladley went out Sunday afternoon about three, didn't he—and got back at five?"
I turned and looked at him. "Yes, Mr. Howell," I said. "Perhaps you know something about that."
"I?" He changed color. Twenty years of dunning boarders has made me pretty sharp at reading faces, and he looked as uncomfortable as if he owed me money. "I!" I knew then that I had been right about the voice. It had been his.
"You!" I retorted. "You were here Sunday morning and spent some time with the Ladleys. I am the old she-devil. I notice you didn't tell your friend, Mr. Holcombe, about having been here on Sunday."
He was quick to recover. "I'll tell you all about it, Mrs. Pitman," he said smilingly. "You see, all my life, I have wished for an onyx clock. It has been my ambition, my Great Desire. Leaving the house that Sunday morning, and hearing the ticking of the clock up-stairs, I recognized that it was an onyx clock, clambered from my boat through an upper window, and so reached it. The clock showed fight, but after stunning it with a chair—"
"Exactly!" I said. "Then the thing Mrs. Ladley said she would not do was probably to wind the clock?"