“I see Colin’s about ready to leave, and I’m in his way,” Trehearne said.  He extended his hand to Rand.  “No need hashing over how we all feel about this.  If it hadn’t been for you, that offer of Kendall’s would have had us stopped as dead as Rivers’s had.  Five hundred dollars deader, in fact.”

Stephen Gresham, carrying a package-filled orange crate, joined him, setting down his burden.  His wife and daughter, with another crate between them, halted beside him.

“Haven’t you got your stuff packed yet, Jeff?” Gresham asked.

“Jeff’s been helping everybody else,” Irene Gresham burst out.  “Come on, everybody; let’s go help Jeff pack!  You’re going to have dinner with us, aren’t you, Jeff?”

“Oh, sorry.  I have some more details to clear up; I’m having dinner here, with Mrs. Fleming,” Rand regretted.  “I’ll pack my stuff later.”

Mrs. Jarrett, Mrs. Trehearne, and Gladys came over; one by one the rest of the group converged upon them.  Then, when the good-by’s had been said, and the promises to meet again had been given, they parted.  One by one the cars moved slowly down the driveway to the road.  Only Gladys and Rand, standing at the foot of the front steps, and the gingerbread-brown butler were left.

“My, my; that was some party!” the Negro chuckled, gathering up three empty pasteboard cartons and telescoping them together.  “Dinner’ll be ready in about half an hour, Mrs. Fleming.  Shall I go mix the cocktails now?”

“Yes; do that, Reuben.  In the drawing-room.”  She watched the servant carry the discarded containers around the house, then turned to Rand.  “You know, not the least of your capabilities is your knack of finding servant-replacements on short notice,” she told him.

“My general factotum, Buck Pendexter, is a prominent personage in New Belfast colored lodge circles,” Rand said.  “When your cook and maid quit on you, the day of the blow-up, all I had to do was phone him, and he did the rest.”  He got out his cigarettes, offered them, and snapped his lighter.  “I notice you’re having cocktails in the drawing-room now.”

“Yes.  I suppose, in time, I’ll stop imagining I see Fred Dunmore’s blood on the library floor.  I got used to what had happened in the gunroom last December.  Shall we go in?” she asked, taking Rand’s arm.

The cocktails were waiting when they entered the drawing-room, off the dining-room.  The butler poured for them and put the glasses and the shaker on a low table by a lounge.

“I’m afraid dinner’s going to be a little later than I said, Mrs. Fleming,” he apologized.  “Things were kind of stirred up, today, with all those people here.”

“That’s all right; we can wait,” she replied.  “We won’t need anything more, Reuben.”

Motioning Rand down on the lounge beside her, she handed him a glass and lifted her own.