She looked at the kitchen
clock. It lacked five minutes of seven.
"Gee," she grumbled, "I didn't know anybody had to get up as early
as I do." Taking down the receiver she uttered a sweet "hello,"
because, as she said, "You never know who's at the other end, and
it's just as likely to be HIM as not."
"Is that you, Annie? This is Mrs. Vick. May I speak to Rosabel?"
"Why, Rosabel isn't here, Mrs. Vick."
"What?"
"Rosabel isn't here."
There was a short silence. Then: "Are you joking with me, Annie?
If she isn't up yet, please tell her to--"
"Honest to goodness, Mrs. Vick, she's not here. I haven't seen her
since day before yesterday."
"She said she was going over to spend the night with you. She left
home about four yesterday. Oh, my goodness, I--I--is there any one
else she might have,--I'm sure she said you, though, Annie. Can
you think of any one else? She took her nightdress--and things."
"She always comes here, Mrs. Vick," said Annie, and felt a little
chill creeping over her. "Still she may have gone to Mrs. Urline's.
She and Hattie are good friends. Shall I call up and ask? I'll ring
you up in a couple of minutes."
That was the beginning. Within the hour the whole of Windomville
was talking about the strange disappearance of the pretty daughter
of Amos Vick, across the river. Old Jim House, the handy-man at
Dowd's Tavern, inserted his shaggy head through the dining-room
door and informed the editor of the Sun in a far from ceremonious
manner that he had an "item" for the paper.
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