The excitement had preceded me and speculation was rife.  Hurrying through my supper, to get away from questions and to go on with my spying, I went out to the front of the house.

The evening was warm; the doors were open; and in the twilight the only lamps that had been lit were in Sampson’s big sitting room at the far end of the house.  Neither Sampson nor Wright had come home to supper.

I would have given much to hear their talk right then, and certainly intended to try to hear it when they did come home.

When the buckboard drove up and they alighted I was well hidden in the bushes, so well screened that I could get but a fleeting glimpse of Sampson as he went in.

For all I could see, he appeared to be a calm and quiet man, intense beneath the surface, with an air of dignity under insult.  My chance to observe Wright was lost.

They went into the house without speaking, and closed the door.

At the other end of the porch, close under a window, was an offset between step and wall, and there in the shadow I hid.  If Sampson or Wright visited the girls that evening I wanted to hear what was said about Steele.

It seemed to me that it might be a good clue for me—­the circumstance whether or not Diane Sampson was told the truth.  So I waited there in the darkness with patience born of many hours of like duty.

Presently the small lamp was lit—­I could tell the difference in light when the big one was burning—­and I heard the swish of skirts.

“Something’s happened, surely, Sally,” I heard Miss Sampson say anxiously.  “Papa just met me in the hall and didn’t speak.  He seemed pale, worried.”

“Cousin George looked like a thundercloud,” said Sally.  “For once, he didn’t try to kiss me.  Something’s happened.  Well, Diane, this has been a bad day for me, too.”

Plainly I heard Sally’s sigh, and the little pathetic sound brought me vividly out of my sordid business of suspicion and speculation.  So she was sorry.

“Bad for you, too?” replied Diane in amused surprise.  “Oh, I see—­I forgot.  You and Russ had it out.”

“Out?  We fought like the very old deuce.  I’ll never speak to him again.”

“So your little—­affair with Russ is all over?”

“Yes.”  Here she sighed again.

“Well, Sally, it began swiftly and it’s just as well short,” said Diane earnestly.  “We know nothing at all of Russ.”

“Diane, after to-day I respect him in—­in spite of things—­even though he seems no good.  I—­I cared a lot, too.”

“My dear, your loves are like the summer flowers.  I thought maybe your flirting with Russ might amount to something.  Yet he seems so different now from what he was at first.  It’s only occasionally I get the impression I had of him after that night he saved me from violence.  He’s strange.  Perhaps it all comes of his infatuation for you.  He is in love with you.  I’m afraid of what may come of it.”