twist of apprehension at heart, when her casual inquiry to a maid
upon entering was answered by a discreet, "Yes, Mrs. Breckenridge,
Mr. Breckenridge came home half an hour ago. Alfred is with him."

This was unexpected. Rachael did not glance either at her guest or
her stepdaughter, but she disposed of them both in a breath.

"Someone wants you on the telephone, Billy," she repeated after
the maid's information. "Take it in the library. Run right up to
my room, Elinor, and I'll be there in two minutes. I'll send some
one in with towels and brushes; you've time for a tub. Take these
things, Helda, and give them to Annie, and tell her to lookout for
Miss Vanderwall."

The square entrance hall was sweet with flowers in the early
spring evening, Oriental rugs were spread on the dull mirror of
the floor, opened doors gave glimpses of airy colonial interiors,
English chintzes crowded with gay colored fruits and flowers,
brick fireplaces framed in classic white and showing a brave gleam
of brass firedogs in the soft lamplight. Not a book on the long
tables, not an etching on the dull rich paper of the walls, struck
a false note. It was all exquisitely in tone.

But Rachael Breckenridge, at best, saw less its positive
perfections than the tiniest opening through which an imperfection
might push its way, and in such an hour as this she saw it not at
all. Her mouth a trifle firm in its outline, her face a little
pale, she went quickly up the wide white stairway and along the
open balcony above. There were several doors on this balcony,
which was indeed the upper hall. Mrs. Breckenridge opened one of