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 CHAPTER

V

Dawn was tinting the high clouds when Mary Delia awoke. She had the gift of coming forth from sleep in full and instant possession of her faculties. Now she felt that something was

amiss;

something insistent and

troublesome going on below her window. She jumped from bed, crossed the room, and looked out upon the shrubbery-encircled driveway. Voices came up to her, restrained

and cautious, a man’s

and a woman’s.

She

recognised the latter. “Hush, you two!” she called, low but imperiously. The man stepped into view. To her surprise it was not Emslie Selfridge but Fred Browning. He was in evening dress, a little wilted, and his eyes looked hot and anxious; but he retained evident command of himself.

“That you, Dee?” he whispered loudly, peering up. “Yes. What’s the matter? Anything wrong?” “No. Connie can’t get in.” Dee smothered an exclamation. With dismay she recalled her sister’s request that she leave the door unlocked. But she had not dreamed that the party at the Grants’

would last as late as this. “T'll be right down,” she promised.

Turning the dim corner from the stairway she stumbled upon a smoking-stand and overturned it with a din which made her heart stand still. Expectant and fearful she halted, poised and listening. No sound or stir came from above. Cautiously she felt her way forward and unlecked the door. Constance was standing at the corner of the porch.

Her hair was dishevelled and luminous, 49