For Henrietta Webb had a speaking face, and Elsie Powell was by no means dull or unobservant.
“Where is Kimball?” Miss Webb said, first of all.
“Why, I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied the girl. “I saw him last night,”—she blushed divinely,—“he was on his way to his dinner,—at the Club, you know. Of course I haven’t seen him since.”
“Nor heard from him?”
“No; and that’s queer, too; for he told me,—” the blush deepened, “that he would telephone me this morning the moment he woke up,—to greet me on my wedding-day. Oh,—nothing has happened—tell me!”
“Oh, probably nothing to worry about, my dear. But,—well, we don’t know where Kimball is.”
“Didn’t he come home from the dinner?” The brown eyes wondered.
“Yes; and spoke to mother, and then went to bed. At least, we assume so. But this morning, he is gone, and—we had to break open the door to get into his room!”
“But,” Elsie smiled, “how could he get out and leave the door locked?”
“That’s just it! That’s the queer part!”