Elsie smiled at the thought that not even New England aristocrats can always command service beyond reproach, and after scanning the rug, as far as she could see, she rose from her knees.
One scrap caught her attention, and from beneath the bed she picked up a tiny twisted thing.
She carefully unfolded it, but it proved to be only a paper that had once contained a quill toothpick and that bore printed on it the name of a city restaurant.
Mechanically she twirled it in her fingers until the flimsy thing was a mere wad, and then she threw it into the waste-basket.
She lingered a moment at the chiffonier, sadness stealing over her heart as she looked at the prosaic, commonplace array of brushes and trays, and she felt a fresh pang as she noted the absence of Kimball’s best things, which, like her own ivory set, were packed for the wedding trip!
“And we’ll go on that wedding trip yet!” Elsie vowed in her heart. “I’m determined to find that man! He never left me voluntarily,—either Henrietta or Wallace Courtney hid him somewhere,—somehow! But I’ll find out where, and I’ll get him back. He’s mine,—my love, my own, and nobody shall take him from me!”
She went down stairs, slowly, thinking deeply as she went.
“I’ve decided,” she announced, as she rejoined the Webb ladies, “I’m going to get a detective,—the best one I can hear of, anywhere.”
“They’re very expensive,” Henrietta reminded her.
“I suppose that means you won’t shoulder any of the expense. Well, I’ll do it, then. My income will remain unchanged until my birthday, anyway, and I’ll use it all, if necessary, to get him back,—but I’ll get him back!”