THE DISAPPEARANCE
OF KIMBALL WEBB

BY
ROWLAND WRIGHT

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1920

Copyright, 1919
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.

VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY
BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I [A Mysterious Disappearance] 1 II [Henrietta Telephones] 15 III [Elsie Suspects] 31 IV [Aunt Elizabeth’s Will] 47 V [Elsie Makes Inquiries] 64 VI [A Haunted Room] 81 VII [Joe Allison] 98 VIII [Courtney’s Talk] 115 IX [Gerty’s Plea] 132 X [Coley Coe] 148 XI [Sleeping Dogs] 165 XII [Coe’s Conclusions] 182 XIII [The Expected Letter] 199 XIV [An Easy Mark] 216 XV [In Uniform] 233 XVI [A Safe Man] 250 XVII [Gilded Acorns] 267 XVIII [Elsie’s Birthday] 284

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF
KIMBALL WEBB

CHAPTER I
A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Kimball Webb didn’t look at all like a man who would disappear mysteriously. Though I’m not sure mysteriously disappearing men, as a class, have physical characteristics in common. But one rather imagines them eerie looking, with deep, cavernous eyes and hollow cheeks.

Kimball Webb had nothing of the sort. He was a bit distinguished looking, but that was because he was a New Englander by birth, and a playwright by profession and had won the D. S. C. in the late war. Now, though a lame knee interfered slightly with his outdoor pursuits, his mind was alert and eager to return to work and his brain was fairly bursting with new ideas for his plays. First, however, he must needs attend to a certain business of getting married. A delightful business it seemed to Webb, for Elsie Powell was as lovely and desirable in the flesh as she had looked to him when seen in his troubled dreams in far off France.

There is a lot to be said about Elsie, but that properly comes in the next chapter.

Mrs. Webb and Miss Henrietta Webb sat at their pleasant breakfast table, and while they wait for the son and brother, I’ll describe them.

Every detail of their appearance and manner shrieked Boston,—so you don’t need much more surface description. A mental interior view would show hearts devotedly, even absurdly, fond of Kimball Webb, and minds which reasoned against showing fully that devotion.

The New England repression of feeling is not effaced by life in New York; indeed, the circumstance often accentuates the trait.

And the Webbs lived in New York. This condition crucified the souls of both women but they came cheerfully, because it was Kimball’s wish. He felt his dramatic talent was of a wing-spread too wide for the narrow opportunities of his native town, and there were other lures in the metropolis, especially Elsie.

So, with a smile on their lips but tears in their eyes, his mother and sister left the shadow of their State House dome, and set up their household gods in an old but comfortable house in the East Sixties, not far from Park Avenue. It was on Park Avenue that Elsie lived.

Webb’s love of all beautiful things,—especially Elsie,—had led him to have the back yard of their home fixed up like an old patio or close or some such doings, and had scattered over its paved area, benches, statues, lions and other more or less damaged stoneware, picked up from certain worthwhile dealers in antiques.

So it was on this picturesque outlook the dining room windows opened, and the house being on the south side of the street, the morning sun added cheer to the already pleasant breakfast scene.

“Kimball is late this morning,” said Miss Webb, naturally, though unnecessarily.

“Small wonder,” returned her mother. “I happen to know that he was up till all hours at his dinner party.”

“What a foolish idea, having a bachelor dinner the night before one is married. I should think he’d prefer a good night’s rest to fit him for the responsibilities of the ceremony.”

“Few responsibilities devolve on Kimball’s shoulders. The best man looks after everything, I’m told.”

“And Fenn Whiting can do that. He is the most capable man I ever saw, when it comes to social matters of any sort. But I’m a little surprised at his consenting to be best man. You know he worships Elsie.”

“I know. He tried to cut Kim out.”

“And I wish he had! I shall never be reconciled to Kim’s marrying that girl—”

“Rather late now to raise objections, Henrietta.”

“As if I hadn’t been raising them right along from the day I first heard the outrageous news!”

“Yes, and what good did it do?”

“None. But I’ve put myself on record as against the marriage.”

“You certainly have! And now, do hold your tongue about it; I think I shall send Hollis up to Kimball’s room—”

“Oh, let the poor boy alone. The wedding isn’t until four o’clock, and he may as well sleep late if he wants to. What time did he get in?”

“It was after two. He looked in to say good-night to me. He had the pendant with him.”

“He did? I thought he was to give it to Elsie yesterday.”

“He was. But she was afraid to keep it in her possession over night,—they have no safe.”

“Neither have we.”

“Well, anyway, she asked Kimball to keep it for her till today. He wanted me to put it in my jewel box, but I said no. I didn’t want the responsibility of such a valuable thing.”

“It is perfectly stunning. It’s wicked, I think, for Kim to put so much money in diamonds.”

“It never was done in our family,” Mrs. Webb sighed. “But the Powells, of course, have different standards.”

“Shall we go on and eat our breakfast?”

“I hate to, on Kim’s last day under this roof. I shall send up and at least find out if he is still asleep.”

Hollis, the butler and general factotum of the establishment, was dispatched on the errand.

When Hollis returned, though his face showed amazement and doubt, there was no sign of fear, but rather a suppressed smile and an indulgent twinkle of his eye.

“Mr. Kimball is very sound asleep, ma’am,” he reported to his mistress. “Will you not leave him lay for awhile?”

“You are implying,” said Mrs. Webb, astutely, “that Mr. Kimball was at a gay party last night. He spoke with me on his return, and I can assure you, Hollis, that he had not been over-celebrating in any way.”

The butler looked chagrined, then relieved, then puzzled.

“In that case, ma’am, why does he sleep so very soundly? I rapped as loud as I could, and also shook at the door-knob. And then, I listened at the keyhole, but I could hear no deep breathing, as of a sound sleeper.”

“I will go up myself,” said Kimball Webb’s mother, and the man held the door open for her to pass through.

“It is very strange,” said Henrietta, with a covert glance at the butler.

“Yes, Miss Webb,” and the man looked at her until she fidgeted.

“Leave the room,” she ordered, sharply, and he obeyed.

“There’s something wrong, Henrietta,” her mother declared, as she came hastily back. “I’ve called and called, and pleaded with him to let me in, but he won’t.”

“Did he reply at all?”

“No; not a sound. I should think he was up and out early, about some business, but that his door is locked.”

“He always locks it at night.”

“Of course. And last night, as he had the diamonds in his keeping, I daresay he fastened the door with extra care.”

“Oh, mother, perhaps somebody has murdered him and stolen the diamonds!”

Henrietta was always outspoken, and the result of this speech was a hysterical scream from the elder lady, that brought Hollis to the scene again, followed by the cook and a housemaid.

Leaving her mother to the attentions of the women servants, Henrietta spoke to the butler.

“Mr. Kimball’s room must be opened,” she said; “can you do it, Hollis?”

“Not alone, Miss Henrietta. Shall I get the chauffeur?”

“Yes, and quickly. Meantime I’m going upstairs myself. Come up as soon as you can get Oscar.”

Slowly Henrietta Webb mounted the two flights of stairs to her brother’s room. A strange, thoughtful look was on her handsome face.

Not a young woman was Miss Webb, indeed she was three years older than Kimball, who was thirty. But she was what is known as well-preserved, and every detail of her perfect grooming spoke of a determination to look her best at any expense of time, trouble or money.

A tradition in the Webb family was that “haste” is a word unknown to a lady. It may have been the observance of this that caused the lagging footsteps, but to an onlooker it would have appeared that Henrietta Webb was thinking with a rapidity in inverse proportion to her movements.

At Kimball’s door, the door from the hall into the front room on the third floor, she paused, and stood looking at it with a sort of fascination. What lay behind it? Tragedy?—or merely the comedy of over sleeping?

“If it should be!” she murmured, in an irrepressible whisper, and her hands clinched into one another, as if in expression of some strong emotion.

“Can’t you rouse him, Miss Webb?” asked Hollis, solicitously, as he and the chauffeur came upstairs two or three steps at a bound.

“I—I haven’t tried,” said Henrietta, dully. “I—I’m afraid—”

“Now, now, Miss Webb,” Oscar, the chauffeur, put in cheerily, “I’ll bet he’s all right. Anyway, we’ll soon see.”

The mechanician quickly picked the lock, but a firm bolt still held the door closed.

“Have to smash in,” he exclaimed; “no other way.”

The door was heavy and solid, as doors of old New York houses are, but after a few futile attempts, the two men burst the bolt from its fastenings and threw the door open.

Kimball Webb was not in the room.

The three, crowding through the doorway, took in this fact without, at first, grasping its full significance.

Then, “The bathroom,” said Henrietta, and Oscar, who was more alert than the butler, flung open the bathroom door.

When the Webbs took the old house, they remodelled it slightly to suit their needs. On this third floor, there had been a joint lavatory and dressing room between two large bedrooms. This had been changed to make it a private bath connected only with Kimball’s room, and having no outlet elsewhere. The room behind it was used as a family sitting-room or library, and there were no other rooms on the floor. What might have been hall bedrooms were alcoves in the two rooms.

Therefore, when Oscar entered the bathroom, and found no one in it, the situation resolved itself into the simple fact that Kimball Webb had disappeared from a room that had but one exit door, and that had been found locked and bolted.

Oscar turned white and shook, Hollis turned red and shivered, but Miss Webb preserved her colour and her poise. It was not remarkable that her colour remained stationary, she had applied it with that intention, but her unshattered nerves bespoke a marvellous self-control.

“Where is he?” she said, and her voice betrayed her agitation, though she strove to control it.

“Where can he be, miss?” exclaimed Oscar. “I never saw the like! He must have jumped out of a window.”

“He couldn’t,” said Henrietta, briefly; “they’re all fastened.”

The two men, unfamiliar with these details, examined the windows.

There were three of them, facing front, on the street. Each was opened at the top for the space of about six inches, and was securely held thus by a patent device that proved to be very firm and strong. The small window of the bathroom opened on a narrow airshaft, but this window was closed and fastened.

Clearly, there was no outlet but the main door into the hall.

Closets and wardrobes were thrown open and examined, Oscar even looked under the bed and behind the heavy window curtains, but there was no sign of Kimball Webb.

“I never saw anything so queer!” exclaimed Henrietta, who had not yet thought of tragedy in connection with her brother’s absence. “I should think he has risen early and gone on some errand,—only how could he have gotten out?”

Hollis merely stared in response to her inquiry.

“He couldn’t, ma’am,” declared Oscar. “Nobody could go out of this room, and leave that door bolted behind him. And it was locked on the inside, too, you know. I turned the key from the other side, with strong pincers.”

Henrietta stared at him blankly.

“Where, then,” she said, “is my brother?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure, miss,” Oscar began, and then Mrs. Webb reached the top of the stairs, and joined the astounded group.

After her, trailed the cook and the housemaid, joined as they passed the second floor, by the chambermaid, so that there was a goodly company of startled and excited people to discuss the amazing circumstance.

The servants, however, said little, save a few scared whispers among themselves, for though the lady of the house was often lenient, yet they well knew that no emergency or unusual occurrence was sufficient excuse in Miss Henrietta’s eyes, for any breach of strict adherence to orders.

“Where’s Kimball, Henrietta?” demanded Mrs. Webb, as if her daughter were entirely responsible for her brother’s keeping.

“I don’t know, mother; it’s the queerest thing! He’s gone off somewhere, and yet, he left the door locked behind him.”

“I can understand that,” and Mrs. Webb looked superiorly informed. “He had—that is, there was, something of value—”

“Oh, yes, I know he had Elsie’s wedding gift here,—but the question is, how did he get out? The door was locked when we came up here.”

“He locked it himself, Etta. What ails you?”

“Listen here, Mrs. Webb,” broke in Oscar, a little forgetful of his etiquette in his excitement. “We found the door locked on the inside,—bolted, too,—we broke in,—so you see it’s most mysterious, ma’am.”

“Broke in! How dared you?”

“Hush, mother, I told them to,” interrupted Henrietta; “there’s something strange,—inexplicable,—impossible, even! What shall we do?”

“What is there to do, but wait for Kim to come back and explain matters?”

“How can he come back? How did he get out? How—”

“Don’t be foolish, Henrietta. However he got out, he can certainly come back. I’ve not the slightest doubt he’s over at Elsie’s.”

“At nine o’clock in the morning!”

“It’s half after now,—nearly ten. He must be over there, for where else would he go,—on his wedding day? Why don’t you telephone Elsie, and inquire?”

“Oh, mother, you are talking rubbish! Try to see things more clearly. Kimball’s gone, and—he’s mysteriously gone!”

“Pooh, people don’t go mysteriously nowadays. Kim’s all right; he’ll turn up soon, and have a good laugh at you.”

“Very well then, how did he leave this room, and lock the door behind him, on the inside, leaving the key on in the lock?”

“On the inside?”

“Yes, on the inside, and bolted as well.”

“I don’t know, my dear, how he did it,—but Kimball can do anything!”

And with this comprehensive statement of her trust in her son’s omnipotence, the elder lady went downstairs again.

“My mother doesn’t take it all in,” said Miss Webb to Oscar, who was rapidly assuming the position of right hand man. “We must do something, I think; can you suggest anything?”

She looked at the young chauffeur with an air of command, whereupon he felt the immediate necessity of suggesting something,—however absurd.

“Shall I call the police, ma’am?” he said.

“No!” she cried. “What an idea! Of course not. My brother has not absconded!”

“But we ought, by rights, to do something,” Oscar went on.

“There’s nothing to do,” Henrietta returned, evidently dissuaded from all action by the mention of the police.

“If I might look around the room a bit, miss?” Oscar ventured.

Henrietta nodded, and the alert youth started on a tour of investigation.

“Don’t touch nothin’,” Hollis growled. He stood, with stern eyes glaring at the eager searcher.

“Why not?”

“It’s against the law—”

“Oh, Hollis,” and Miss Webb frowned at him. “This is not a criminal case!”

“How do you know it ain’t, Miss Webb?”

Ignoring him, Henrietta watched the other.

Without touching anything, Oscar made a very intelligent and quick search of conditions.

“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.”

And Henrietta ran downstairs to telephone.

CHAPTER II
HENRIETTA TELEPHONES

She made an impressive picture, as she swept the telephone from its little table, even while she sank into the attendant chair. For Henrietta Webb was a striking-looking woman,—only her Bostonian restraint kept her from being a stunning one. Tall, but very graceful, muscular, yet strictly feminine, her demeanor was marked by a calm composure, that was absolutely unshakable.

“Mistress of herself, though china fall,” would be a true but an inadequate comment on Miss Webb’s self-control. She ruled herself, as she did all with whom she came in contact; she dominated every phase and circumstance of her life and that of the household. This domination of others was not obtrusive, was not always even evident, but it showed itself upon occasion.

One person, however, her brother Kimball, Miss Webb could not always rule. Though in many ways, and up to a certain point, he was a veritable mush of concession, yet there came a moment, not infrequently, when he calmly but very decidedly put her in her place. To do Henrietta justice, she took these moments rationally, bowed to his will, and set herself about achieving her desired end by other means.

And rarely, perhaps never, did she fail of achieving her desired ends.

Personally, Miss Webb was the type of woman that is adjudged beautiful by some people while others say, “I can’t see how you can possibly call her good-looking!”

She had great grey eyes, with dark—well, say, darkened lashes. She would have had grey hair, but she preferred dark brown,—and had it. A faint pink flush showed, usually, on her smooth cheeks, and her firm, beautifully shaped lips were a lovely red.

Now, don’t run away with the impression that Henrietta was awfully made-up and artificial looking. She was nothing of the sort. All her aids to Nature were so skilfully achieved and so natural of effect that he who ran might read them as nature’s own. It would be only one who would peep and botanize who would discover the truth, and even he might not.

Miss Webb’s exquisitely proportioned figure, too, owed something but not all to the art of her corsetière and modiste. But her own good judgment and perfect taste kept them from overdoing anything, and the result came pretty near to being a perfect woman, nobly planned. And with the plans nobly carried out.

Her face, per se, was fine, aristocratic, and Bostonian of cast; so now you can get a pretty fair idea of Miss Henrietta Webb’s appearance. She had long arms, long fingers, long legs, and—if it interests you at all—long toes. She was that sort, you know, and those long limbs and digital extremities fairly shout a psychic nature. Which she had.

Her voice was charming. It had that indescribable, inimitable timbre,—that only New England birth bestows; and those wonderful inflections never inborn save in Massachusetts.

This voice and these inflections now sounded over the telephone, like the sound of a grand Hello!

For Miss Webb was too truly correct, too innately proper to descend to the silly subterfuges of “Yes?” or “What is it?” affected by the would-be refined.

But her “Hello,” with her inflection, was like the benediction that follows after prayer,—or like the harmonious echo of this discordant life.

“Hello!” returned Fenn Whiting, in his cheery way. “How are you? How’s old Kimmy?”

“Can you come up here right away?” asked Miss Webb, and catching the serious note in her voice, Whiting replied, “Why, yes; in a few minutes. What’s up?”

“I don’t want to talk over the telephone,” she informed him, “but do get here as soon as you possibly can.”

She hung up the receiver, which was her efficacious way of decreeing the conversation at an end.

“Mother,” she said, rising, “we may as well eat our breakfast. Thank Heaven we’re not the sort of people who fly into hysterics. I admit if I were that sort I should certainly do so, though, for this mystery is baffling me. I feel my brain reel when I try to think it out! Whatever the explanation of Kimball’s absence, no power on earth can explain how he got out of his room.”

“There are other powers than those of earth, Henrietta,” Mrs. Webb began, solemnly.

“There now,” spoke up her daughter, with some asperity, “don’t begin that jargon! You’ll be saying next that spirits carried Kim off!”

“Can you suggest anything more believable?”

“I can’t think of anything more unbelievable! I’d rather think he went up the chimney or oozed through the keyhole than any supernatural foolishness!”

“Simply a choice of foolishnesses, then,” observed Mrs. Webb, calmly, and she took her seat at the table and asked for hot muffins and fresh coffee.

“Where is the diamond pendant?” said Henrietta, suddenly.

“Gracious! I don’t know. It must be in Kim’s room, somewhere. You’d better hunt it out before anybody more goes searching around. Didn’t you say Oscar showed some curiosity?”

“Not exactly that; he searched with a sort of detective instinct, a systematic investigation to Kim’s clothes and that sort of thing.”

“All the same, Henrietta, I think the jewels should be secured. When Kim returns he won’t like it much if they have been stolen.”

“Very well, I’ll hunt for the pendant as soon as I finish breakfast.”

But as they rose from the table Fenn Whiting arrived and the story was told to him.

His face showed wonderment, even incredulity, and he had no sort of explanation to suggest.

“The only thing I can think of,” he said, “is that somebody has played a practical joke on Kimmy. You know we were pretty gay at dinner, last night, and there was a lot of guying of the prospective bridegroom. It was fun, because Kim is such an old sober-sides and so matter-of-fact, that—”

“He’s nothing of the sort,” contradicted Henrietta; “Kimball has the finest sense of humour—”

“Oh, that, yes! Doesn’t he write high-class comedies? But I mean he has no liking for personal badinage, no relish for practical jokes—”

“The kind of fun known as horse-play, I suppose you mean,” Henrietta observed, scathingly.

“Well, yes, Miss Webb, I suppose that’s just about what I do mean. Anyway, there was a lot of fooling last night that didn’t appeal strongly to our host, and though he behaved beautifully under fire, he couldn’t help showing his distaste for some of the speeches.”

“Well,” said Henrietta, impatiently, “what sort of a joke, and perpetrated by whom, would explain my brother’s present absence, and disclose his hiding-place?”

“Oh, Lord! I don’t know! I don’t know that any such thing happened,—I only caught at that as a possible way to turn.”

“Let’s turn that way, then,” and Henrietta looked at Whiting with an air of awaiting further instructions.

“I’m willing, Miss Webb; I’ll do anything I can to help you,—but what shall we do? Are you sure Kimball isn’t in the house?”

“I’m not sure of anything! I only know he is not in evidence; that his bed was slept in, but that he has disappeared,—and, disappeared, leaving his room locked on the inside.”

“What! impossible! How did he get out?”

“That’s the mystery. Oh, Mr. Whiting, think of the situation! Today is his wedding day—”

“Well, I ought to know that! I’m best man.”

“Of course you are. But you can’t be best man without a bridegroom!”

“He’ll turn up, of course. But it is queer! Who can be responsible for the performance?”

“Can you guess? Who, of all the men there last night would be the most likely ones?”

“Nothing like that happened, Mr. Whiting,” broke in Mrs. Webb, who till now had silently listened; “Kimball couldn’t have been tricked out of that room. A human being can’t leave a locked room by human means. He was supernaturally removed. I am a believer in Spiritism, I know all about its manifestations and I am sure my son was levitated—”

“Levitated? What does that mean, Mrs. Webb?” the puzzled visitor inquired.

“It is a well-known term among psychists. People have been levitated, while in an unconscious state, from one house to another,—simply wafted through the air—”

“Oh, rubbish! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Webb, but—do you really believe that?”

“Of course I do—”

“Hush, mother;” Henrietta reproved her; “those fads of yours are inopportune at this moment. She is a believer in all Spiritism, Mr. Whiting, but this is not the time for such suggestions. Do you know it is eleven o’clock? Something must be done! And oughtn’t we to let Elsie know what has happened? She has a right to be told.”

“Who will tell her?” asked Whiting, looking troubled.

Remembering his own hopeless admiration for the girl, Henrietta readily understood his disinclination to carry her the disturbing news.

“I’ll go and tell her,” she said, at last. “But you, Mr. Whiting, must do something toward finding Kimball. The cruel person who would do such a thing as to hide away a man on his wedding day is no less than a criminal. Only a wicked mind could conceive of such a deed!”

“Perhaps he went of his own accord?”

“I truly hope so; then he’ll come back soon. But we must take no chances. Leave no stone unturned to find out what has happened. Tell me frankly, what men at the dinner would you think capable of such an exhibition of cruelty and bad taste?”

“I hesitate to say; I can’t think any of them would be. Oh, don’t take my whilom suggestion as a fact! I can’t believe it myself. But—what else?”

“There is no other. And even that’s an impossible solution, remembering the locked door!”

“If you leave out the question of the locked door,” said Mrs. Webb, “then I should suspect a burglar, who came to steal the diamond pendant.”

“Is that missing?” asked Whiting, looking shocked.

“We don’t know,” said Henrietta. “Kimball had it last night, he showed it to mother after he came home—”

“He had it at the dinner,” vouchsafed Whiting; “he showed it to us all. Oh, he wasn’t parading it,—he chanced to have it in his pocket, and Wally Courtney, I think it was, asked to see it. Courtney’s a gem fancier, I believe. Well, we all looked at it with interest. It’s a great little old jewel, you know!”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Webb, “I never saw finer stones; and the four of them, so perfectly matched, yet of graduated sizes, make a wonderful pendant. As they hang, below one another, they look like dripping water.”

“An exquisite gift,” said Whiting. “Have you searched for it thoroughly?”

“Haven’t looked at all,” declared Henrietta. “You see, it would take a careful search. For if Kimball hid it from possible thieves, he hid it very securely, I’ve no doubt.”

“Under his pillow, maybe?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. But I’ll look everywhere. Just now, I’m more anxious to find my brother than his diamonds.”

“I don’t blame you. Now, to be practical, suppose I name over all the guests of last night’s dinner, and let’s see if we can fasten suspicion on any one of them.”

But listing the guests meant nothing to Henrietta. The ones she knew, she was certain would do nothing of the sort; and the ones with whom she was unacquainted, she could not, of course, judge.

Whiting, also, couldn’t bring himself to accuse anybody. The greatest jokers, even buffoons, present, were, as a rule, the most kind-hearted chaps, and quite incapable of so distressing a prospective bridegroom.

“It can’t be that!” he said, at last. “I’ve rounded them all up in my mind. I’d rather adopt Mrs. Webb’s theory than to suspect any of those jolly, good-natured fellows! Every one is a friend of Kimmy’s, and though they were hilarious, they were nothing more, and we all parted in kindliest feeling.”

“You said some of them annoyed Kimball.”

“Oh, hardly annoyed; embarrassed him a little, perhaps. But I’ve been to dozens of bachelor dinners, and I can assure you old Kim was let off pretty easily last night. Most of them respected his dislike for overintimate chaff.”

“I’m glad they did! It’s a horrid thing.” Miss Webb looked disdainful. “But the time is simply melting away! What shall we do? Oh, Mr. Whiting, do help us,—or, if you can’t, suggest somebody who can!”

“Honest, Miss Webb, I feel helpless. I am distressed, beyond all words,—but I don’t seem to be able to think of anything to help. I brought Kim home; there were four of us in my car, and he was the first to get out. That was near two, I should say. Then I took Courtney home, and then Harbison and then went home myself. Honest, I can’t suspect any of those men. As to the others, I know nothing of what they did. We separated as we left the Club, and I’ve not seen anybody this morning. Shall I go up and give Kim’s room the once over? I might find a clue—or something.”

“I hate that word ‘clue!’ It always seems to connote a crime!”

“Oh, not necessarily. Anyway, I can’t see any crime in this case, but I confess it’s mysterious beyond anything I ever heard of.”

“Go up, if you like, Mr. Whiting. But I can’t see any use in it. Kim’s room is exactly as it ought to be, there’s nothing upset or out of place. Only,—we had to break in to get in at all!”

“He must have left the room by some other door, then.”

“There is no other door.”

“Window?”

“All fastened with special catches. But, do go up, Mr. Whiting, you might chance on something that I overlooked. Hollis will show you the way. Now, I’m going to Elsie’s. It isn’t right not to tell her.”

“Shall I go, Henrietta?” Mrs. Webb asked, docilely.

“No, mother. I’d rather go alone. I’ll take the little car. Hollis, tell Oscar to bring it at once, and then do you take Mr. Whiting up to Mr. Kimball’s room.”

With her usual quiet efficiency, Henrietta set the wheels moving, and was ready, dressed for the street, when the car arrived.

She rode the few blocks down Park Avenue that brought her to Elsie Powell’s home, in a deep study.

She was marshalling and formulating her thoughts. Possessed of great mental concentration, she had her mind in order, so far as her knowledge allowed, when she reached her destination.

The Powells’ apartment was one of the fine modern ones that cost more than a house and are also more livable. The large rooms, light, airy and attractive, were furnished in the best of taste, though of a very different type from the Webb home. Everything was light, bright and pleasing to the eye. But Miss Webb scorned the lack of all that she deemed desirable; old mahogany, family portraits and heirlooms.

There wasn’t a “Treasure Table” to be seen, and the window curtains were suspiciously spick and span.

Newness was a crime in the Webb calendar, and Kimball’s choice of a wife was a very sharp thorn in the patrician sides of his mother and sister.

Yet few could find fault with the girl who came running into the room to greet Henrietta.

“Oh, my dear,” cried the lovely little voice, “I’ve just had the most wonderful gift from your cousin,—Kimball’s cousin, Mrs. Saltonstall! It’s a set of old china,—a whole set! and really old! Do come and look at it!”

Henrietta couldn’t help gazing kindly at the speaker. The shining eyes, the soft pink cheeks, the smiling, curved lips,—even if the old china was wasted on this chit of a girl, she was a very engaging chit.

Dark curls, stuffed into a tiptilted, rosebudded lace cap; dainty slender white throat rising from a hastily tied together negligée; fluttering little pinky hands and dancing feet, all were part of the gladsome whole that was Elsie Powell. Happy enthusiasm, childish glee, were combined with a touch of wistful shyness that always attacked her in the presence of her critical sister-in-law to be.

But so gravely did Miss Webb look at her, that Elsie intuitively felt something unusual.

“What is it?” she cried. “Henrietta, what is it?”

The big, brown eyes were full of a frightened premonition, the red lips quivered, and the little butterfly hands clasped themselves in trembling fear.

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!”

“Queer? It’s impossible!”

“Impossible or not, he did it! Or, that is to say, all we know is that he’s missing, and he disappeared, leaving the room securely fastened.”

“I don’t understand.” Elsie became suddenly very grave and sat down beside her guest. “How can what you tell me be true?”

“I can give no explanation,—I simply state the facts.”

Henrietta Webb looked coldly at the girl now; perhaps because Elsie was looking very sternly at her.

“May I ask,—would you mind—stating them again?”

Patiently, Miss Webb repeated what she had told, and amplified it until she had described the entire episode of entering her brother’s room by force. She told, too, of calling Fenn Whiting, and of his suggestion of a practical joke.

“Not at all,” said Elsie, decidedly. Her cheeks showed a redder flush, her eyes were very bright, and though she repressed it, she was trembling with excitement.

“May I call my mother?” she said, at last, in firm, even tones. “Will you tell this to her?”

She left the room and returned immediately with her mother.

Mrs. Powell was an invalid, and had been for years. But her bright eyes and strong, fine face told of an indomitable will and a capable personality.

Again Miss Webb told her story. She liked none of the Powells, and though she concealed this, yet there was no magnetism in her manner,—no sympathy in her voice.

She told a straightforward tale, precisely as she had told it to Elsie. She did not soften the facts, she held out no hope or encouragement; she talked with a peculiar effect of giving statistics, as a conscientious reporter might do.

At the close of the recital, Mrs. Powell promptly went to pieces. She always did this on exciting occasions.

“Try not to, mother,” was Elsie’s softly spoken advice, and then she turned to Miss Webb.

“You cannot deceive me,” she said, quietly, but with flashing eyes; “I do not believe a word of your story! You have hidden Kimball somewhere so that he cannot marry me today! You are desperately opposed to our marriage, and you have resorted to desperate means to prevent it! Your invention of the locked room business is too silly for words, and you must think me an utter idiot if you think I would swallow such nonsense. You have made no secret of your opposition to me, you have tried every way possible to break off the match, and, failing, you have taken matters into your own hands and you have done this despicable thing! You have hidden or confined your brother,—what have you done with him?”

CHAPTER III
ELSIE SUSPECTS

“After such an exhibition of foolishness, one could scarcely wonder that I can’t look upon you as a desirable mate for my talented brother,—but I am willing to make allowances for your display of temper, as I can readily understand how embarrassed you must be at the awkwardness of having no wedding—”

Henrietta Webb paused as she saw the look that came over Elsie’s face.

“Don’t you propose to let him out in time to get married?” the girl cried. “Oh, Henrietta, how can you be so cruel? I know you’ve done this thing,—Kimball couldn’t disappear! Nor would he go away of his own accord. But you’ve had something up your sleeve for a long time,—I saw that you had,—only I never dreamed it was anything so heartless, so awful as to stop the wedding at the last minute! Why, it’s after twelve,—and the people will begin to go to the church soon after three. Please, Henrietta, own up now! Give him up! You know you can’t prevent the wedding,—you can only postpone it; and think of the trouble you’ll make!”

“Be quiet, Elsie,” said Miss Webb, a little alarmed at the girl’s excitement. “Tell her she’s all wrong, Mrs. Powell, won’t you?”

“I’m not sure she is,” said the dazed mother. “I can’t take it all in,—but it seems to me Elsie has hit on the only possible explanation of Kimball’s disappearance.”

“What are you people talking about?” inquired a newcomer, and Elsie’s sister came into the room.

Gerty Seaman, widowed by the war and left with two tiny children, was one of those helpless, appealing women, who, having no self-reliance, lean upon any one who chances to be near.

“What is the matter? Where is your brother, Miss Webb? Tell me everything,—I refuse to be kept in the dark!”

But after hearing all there was to be told, Gerty took a light view of the situation.

“Nonsense, Elsie,” she said, “of course Miss Webb has nothing to do with it! It’s a joke of some of those horrid men! Some people love to do such things. They’ve kidnapped him for fun, and they’ll let him loose in time for the ceremony, but not much before.”

“I can’t think that,” said Henrietta, musing; “I don’t know all of Kimball’s friends, but those I do know are far above any such uncouth jests as that.”

“What do you think, then?” asked Elsie, sharply.

“I’d rather not say what I think.”

“Oh. Well, what does your mother think?”

“You know my mother’s hobby,—spiritualism. She thinks Kimball has been spirited away by supernatural powers.”

“What rubbish!” exclaimed Gerty. “But there’s small use in guessing at the truth. Something has happened,—I suppose there’s no chance that he has turned up at home since you left?”

“I told Hollis to telephone me here in that case.”

“Well,” and Gerty spoke briskly, “we must take steps to postpone the wedding—”

“I won’t!” declared Elsie, “at least, not yet. Wait, Gerty, till the last possible minute for that!”

“I think it is the last minute now, dear. Or shall we wait till one o’clock?”

“Two,” said Elsie, thinking hard. “Give me till two to find him. I’m going over to the Webbs’ now. Will you take me over, Henrietta?”

“Come on,” said Miss Webb, briefly, and Elsie ran to get ready.

“You mustn’t blame the child—” began Mrs. Powell.

“I don’t,” said Henrietta, justly enough. “She is in a fearful position,—I don’t resent her saying to me what she did,—she’s really irresponsible.”

“But what can be the explanation?” urged Gerty. “You needn’t imply that Kimball has hidden himself purposely, for I know that isn’t so. He is desperately in love with Elsie,—desperately—”

“Of course he is,” said Elsie, coolly, as she returned, ready for the street. “Come along, Henrietta.”

Not a word was spoken between the two women as they rode to the Webb house.

Inquiringly, Elsie looked at Mrs. Webb, who was in the drawing room, distractedly pacing up and down.

Her greeting was not affectionate; indeed, Elsie seemed to detect a shade of relief in the elder woman’s face, a satisfaction, she quickly thought, that the wedding could not take place.

“Where is he?” she cried, but Mrs. Webb only shook her head, and Elsie felt herself dismissed.

“Where is he?” she repeated; “I have a right to ask! I am his promised wife,—his bride! Where is my bridegroom?”

“Gone!” said Mrs. Webb, in a vague, faraway tone. “Gone for ever, Elsie.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks! That he isn’t! I’m going up to his room,—I want to see how he did get out.”