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Updated: June 29, 2025
Klopton herself saw me served, my bread buttered and cut in tidbits, my meat ready for my fork. She hovered around me maternally, obviously trying to cheer me. "The paper says still warmer," she ventured. "The thermometer is ninety-two now." "And this coffee is two hundred and fifty," I said, putting down my cup. "Where is Euphemia? I haven't seen her around, or heard a dish smash all day."
Only this time it began at the lower floor and climbed!" "You oughtn't to tell ghost stories at night," came McKnight's voice from the doorway. "Really, Mrs. Klopton, I'm amazed at you. You old duffer! I've got you to thank for the worst day of my life." Mrs. Klopton gulped. Then realizing that the "old duffer" was meant for me, she took her empty cup and went out muttering.
"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.
"Seven and a quarter," I replied. "Well, it's only piling up evidence," he said cheerfully. "On the night of the murder you wore light gray silk underclothing, with the second button of the shirt missing. Your hat had 'L. B. in gilt letters inside, and there was a very minute hole in the toe of one black sock." "Hush," McKnight protested. "If word gets to Mrs. Klopton that Mr.
"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.
But McKnight had not gone, after all. I heard him coming back, his voice preceding him, and I groaned with irritation. "Wake up!" he called. "Somebody's sent you a lot of flowers. Please hold the box, Mrs. Klopton; I'm going out to be run down by an automobile." I roused to feeble interest.
So now I looked up and asked the question she was waiting for. "What's the matter with Euphemia?" I inquired idly. "Frightened into her bed," Mrs. Klopton said in a stage whisper. "She's had three hot water bottles and she hasn't done a thing all day but moan." "She oughtn't to take hot water bottles," I said in my severest tone. "One would make me moan.
I was half inclined to tell her that both it and we were under police surveillance at that moment. But I like Mrs. Klopton, in spite of the fact that I make her life a torment for her, so I refrained. "Last night, when the paper said it was going to storm, I sent Euphemia to the roof to bring the rugs in. Eliza had slipped out, although it was her evening in.
Down-stairs McKnight was flirting with the telephone central and there was an odor of boneset tea in the air. I think Mrs. Klopton was fascinated out of her theories by the "boneset" in connection with the fractured arm. Anyhow, I held up the bag and looked at it.
You need not wait, I'll ring if I need anything." Mrs. Klopton sailed to the door, where she stopped and wheeled indignantly. "I only hope you won't laugh on the wrong side of your face some morning, Mr. Lawrence," she declared, with Christian fortitude. "But I warn you, I am going to have the police watch that house next door."
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