them without knocking, and closed it noiselessly behind her.

The room into which she admitted herself presented exactly the
picture she had expected. The curtains, again of richly colored
cretonne, were drawn, a softly toned lamp on the reading table,
and another beside the bed, cast circles of pleasant light on the
comfortable wicker chairs, the cream-colored woodwork, and the
scattered books and magazines. Several photographs of Carol,
beautifully framed, were on bookcase and dresser, and a fine oil
painting of the child at fourteen looked down from the mantel. On
the bed, a mahogany four-poster, with carved pineapples finishing
the posts, the frilled cretonne cover had been flung back; Mr.
Breckenridge had retired; his blond head was sunk in the pillows;
he clutched the blankets about him with his arms, his face was not
visible.

A quiet manservant, who was by turns butler, chauffeur, and valet,
was stepping softly about the room. Rachael interrogated him in a
low tone:

"Asleep, Alfred?"

"Oh, no, ma'am!" the man said quickly. "He's been feeling ill. He
says he has a chill."

"When did he get home?" the wife asked.

"About half an hour ago, Mrs. Breckenridge. Mr. Butler telephoned
me. Some of the gentlemen were going on--to one of the beach
hotels for dinner, I believe, but Mr. Breckenridge felt himself