Flint’s car was waiting, and Jerry Donovan, the chauffeur, stood with a dripping umbrella almost at Claire’s elbow as she hopped upon the platform.

As they swished through the inky blackness, Claire said to Jerry, with as inconsequential an air as she could muster: 

“I thought I saw Mrs. Flint get off the boat in town.  But I guess I was mistaken.  She wouldn’t be leaving Mr. Flint alone ... when he’s ill.”

“Ill?” Jerry chuckled.  “Well, he ain’t dead by a long shot.  Just a case of sniffles, and a good excuse for hitting the booze.  He’s in prime condition, I can tell you.”

Claire had never seen Flint in “prime condition,” but she had it from Nellie Whitehead that there were moments when the gentleman in question could “go some,” to use her predecessor’s precise terms.

“About twice a year,” Nellie had once confided to Claire, “the old boy starts in to cure a cold.  I helped him cure one ... but never again!”

Jerry’s observations aroused fresh anxiety, but they did not settle the issue for Claire.  She felt that she could not turn back at the eleventh hour.  There was nothing else for her to do but go through with the game.  Yet she still hoped for the best.

“Did Mrs. Flint go to town to-day?” she finally asked, point-blank.

“Sure thing,” said Jerry, swinging the car past the Flint gateway.

Claire refused to be totally lacking in faith.

“There must be a maid,” flashed through her mind, as Jerry stopped the car and swung down to help her out.

A Japanese boy threw open the door as they scrambled up the rain-soaked steps.  But the fine, orderly, Colonial interior reassured Claire.  The few country homes she had seen had been of the rambling, unrelated bungalow type, with paneled redwood walls either stained to a dismal brown or quite frankly left to their rather characterless pink.  This home was different.  Even the pungent oak logs crackling in the fireplace did so with indefinable distinction.  The general tone of the surroundings was as little in keeping with the patchwork personality of its mistress as one could imagine.  It was as if the singular completeness of Mrs. Flint’s home left no time nor energy for a finished individuality.  Claire got all this in the briefest of flashes, just a swift, inclusive glance about the entrance hall and through the doorways leading into the rooms beyond.  Particularly did she sense the severe opulence of the dining-room, twinkling at a remoter distance than the living-room—­its perfectly polished silver, its spotless linen, its wonderfully blue china, not to mention the disconcerting fact that the table in the center was laid for but two.

And then Flint himself came forward with a very red face and an absurdly cordial greeting.

“Well, I began to wonder whether you’d risk it.  This will be a storm and no mistake....  Here, let me have your coat.  Come, you’re quite wet....  Shall you warm up on a hot toddy or something cooler—­a cocktail?”