“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.