place on Warrington Street I told you about yesterday. I think you’d
like it, Pinkwink.”

“Pinkwink” was Dr. Pierce’s pet-name for Maida.

“Oh, I’d love to see it.” A little thrill of pleasure sparkled in
Maida’s flat tones. “I’d just love to.”

Dr. Pierce gave some directions to the chauffeur.

For fifteen minutes or more the men talked business. They had come
away from the sea and the streams of yellow and red and green trees.
Maida pillowed her head on the cushions and stared fixedly at the
passing streets. But her little face wore a dreamy, withdrawn look
as if she were seeing something very far away. Whenever “Buffalo”
Westabrook’s glance shot her way, his thick brows pulled together
into the frown that most people dreaded to face.

“Now down the hill and then to the left,” Dr. Pierce instructed
Henri.

Warrington Street was wide and old-fashioned. Big elms marching in a
double file between the fine old houses, met in an arch above their
roofs. At intervals along the curbstones were hitching-posts of
iron, most of them supporting the head of a horse with a ring in his
nose. One, the statue of a negro boy with his arms lifted above his
head, seemed to beg the honor of holding the reins. Beside these
hitching-posts were rectangular blocks of granite—stepping-stones
for horseback riders and carriage folk.