"Is this Mr. Drake?"

They were being blown through the door into the waiting-room as
she put the question. Her voice was muffled. The man in the great
fur coat put his weight against the door to close it.

"Yes, Mrs. Wrandall. I have done all that could be done under the
circumstances. I am sorry to tell you that we still have two miles
to go by motor before we reach the inn. My car is open,--I don't
possess a limousine,--but if you will lie down in the tonneau you
will find some protection from--"

She broke in sharply, impatiently. "Pray do not consider me, Mr.
Drake. I am not afraid of the blizzard."

"Then we'd better be off," said he, a note of anxiety in his
voice,--a certain touch of nervousness. "I drive my own car. The
road is good, but I shall drive cautiously. Ten minutes, perhaps.
I--I am sorry you thought best to brave this wretched--"

"I am not sorry for myself, Mr. Drake, but for you. You have been
most kind. I did not expect you to meet me."

"I took the liberty of telephoning to you. It was well that I
did it early in the evening. The wires are down now, I fear." He
hesitated for a moment, staring at her as if trying to penetrate
the thick, wet veil. "I may have brought you on a fool's errand.
You see, I--I have seen Mr. Wrandall but once, in town somewhere,
and I may be wrong. Still, the coroner,--and the sheriff,--seemed
to think you should be notified,--I might say questioned. That is