CHAPTER THIRTEENTry the Impossible
Mr. and Mrs. Groby had made a job of it. The bedding had been torn from the bed and the mattress rolled up, drawers had been removed from dressers and turned upside down, rag rugs were piled in corners, clothing was heaped upon chairs, all the closet doors stood open, soot that had fallen down the chimney drifted across the hearth.
“There ain’t any loose floorboards,” said Mrs. Groby, “or any holes in the chimney, or any ripped-up places in the pillows or the mattress.”
Groby, lifting a picture to its hook, said that if there was money in the room, Alvira had certainly buried it good and deep.
“She wouldn’t bury it deep.” Gamadge stood with his hands in his pockets, looking about him. “She wouldn’t nail it up anywhere. She was using it for current exp
