"I've been safe in all kinds of houses for sixty-odd years," she
said lightly. "It's time I had a bit of a change. Besides," she
gestured toward her defenses, "this house is as nearly impregnable
as I can make it. The window locks are sound enough, the doors are
locked, and the keys are there," she pointed to the keys lying on
the table. "As for the terrace door you just used," she went on,
"I had Billy put an extra bolt on it today. By the way, did you
bolt that door again?" She moved toward the alcove.

"Yes, I did," said the Doctor quickly, still seeming unconvinced of
the wisdom of her attitude.

"Miss Van Gorder, I confess--I'm very anxious for you," he
continued. "This letter is--ominous. Have you any enemies?"

"Don't insult me! Of course I have. Enemies are an indication of
character."

The Doctor's smile held both masculine pity and equally masculine
exasperation. He went on more gently.

"Why not accept my hospitality in the village to-night?" he proposed
reasonably. "It's a little house but I'll make you comfortable.
Or," he threw out his hands in the gesture of one who reasons with
a willful child, "if you won't come to me, let me stay here!"

Miss Cornelia hesitated for an instant. The proposition seemed
logical enough--more than that--sensible, safe. And yet, some
indefinable feeling--hardly strong enough to be called a premonition