“Where’s his clothes?” he demanded. “You see, he’d been to bed,—yet his night things are gone, and I don’t see the day clothes he took off. What was he wearing last night, ma’am?”
“Evening dress. He gave his bachelor dinner, you know. Didn’t you drive him to the club?”
“Yes, ma’am, but I didn’t bring him home. He said for me not to go for him, he’d come home with some of his friends.”
“Well, he had on his customary evening clothes. Are they not in his clothes closet?”
But they were not. Henrietta looked dumfounded. It had become evident to her, at last, that there was a mystery connected with her brother’s absence. And today was his wedding day! Ah, he must be over at Elsie’s. No matter how contradictory the facts, no matter if he was wearing evening clothes in the morning, there must be a rational explanation,—if only for the reason that there was certainly no irrational one!
“Do let’s do something, miss!” urged Oscar.
Henrietta turned now to the butler as the man of better judgment.
“What do you think, Hollis?”
“I don’t know what to think, Miss Henrietta. There’s nothing possible to think. But I agree, something ought to be done. Suppose you telephone to Mr. Whiting.”
“The very thing! Mr. Whiting is most capable and efficient. And too, he’s to be my brother’s best man. I’ll call him up at once.”