“It is that,” I agreed soberly. Hotchkiss and I arrived in Washington late that evening, and, rather than arouse the household, I went to the club. I was at the office early the next morning and admitted myself. McKnight rarely appeared before half after ten, and our modest office force some time after nine. I looked over my previous day’s mail and waited, with such patience as I possessed, for McKnight. In the interval I called up Mrs. Klopton and announced that I would dine at home that night. What my household subsists on during my numerous absences I have never discovered. Tea, probably, and crackers. Diligent search when I have made a midnight arrival, never reveals anything more substantial. Possibly I imagine it, but the announcement that I am about to make a journey always seems to create a general atmosphere of depression throughout the house, as though Euphemia and Eliza, and Thomas, the stableman, were already subsisting, in imagination, on Mrs. Klopton’s meager fare. So I called her up and announced my arrival. There was something unusual in her tone, as though her throat was tense with indignation. Always shrill, her elderly voice rasped my ear painfully through the receiver. “I have changed the butcher, Mr. Lawrence,” she announced portentously. “The last roast was a pound short, and his mutton-chops—any self-respecting sheep would refuse to acknowledge them.” As I said before, I can always tell from the voice in which Mrs. Klopton conveys the most indifferent matters, if something of real significance has occurred. Also, through long habit, I have learned how quickest to bring her to the point. “You are pessimistic this morning,” I returned. “What’s the matter, Mrs. Klopton? You haven’t used that tone since Euphemia baked a pie for the iceman. What is it now? Somebody poison the dog?” She cleared her throat. “The house has been broken into, Mr. Lawrence,” she said. “I have lived in the best families, and never have I stood by and seen what I saw yesterday—every bureau drawer opened, and my—my most sacred belongings—” she choked. “Did you notify the police?” I asked sharply. “Police!” she sniffed. “Police! It was the police that did it—two detectives with a search warrant. I—I wouldn’t dare tell you over the telephone what one of them said when he found the whisky and rock candy for my cough.” “Did they take anything?” I demanded, every nerve on edge. “They took the cough medicine,” she returned indignantly, “and they said—” “Confound the cough medicine!” I was frantic. “Did they take anything else? Were they in my dressing-room?” “Yes. I threatened to sue them, and I told them what you would do when you came back. But they wouldn’t listen. They took away that black sealskin bag you brought home from Pittsburg with you!”