I finished my packing, changed my collar and was ready to go.  Then very cautiously we put out the light and opened the shutters.  The window across was merely a deeper black in the darkness.  It was closed and dirty.  And yet, probably owing to Richey’s suggestion, I had an uneasy sensation of eyes staring across at me.  The next moment we were at the door, poised for flight.

“We’ll have to run for it,” I said in a whisper.  “She’s down there with a package of some sort, sandwiches probably.  And she’s threatened me with overshoes for a month.  Ready now!”

I had a kaleidoscopic view of Mrs. Klopton in the lower hall, holding out an armful of such traveling impedimenta as she deemed essential, while beside her, Euphemia, the colored housemaid, grinned over a white-wrapped box.

“Awfully sorry-no time-back Sunday,” I panted over my shoulder.  Then the door closed and the car was moving away.

McKnight bent forward and stared at the facade of the empty house next door as we passed.  It was black, staring, mysterious, as empty buildings are apt to be.

“I’d like to hold a post-mortem on that corpse of a house,” he said thoughtfully.  “By George, I’ve a notion to get out and take a look.”

“Somebody after the brass pipes,” I scoffed.  “House has been empty for a year.”

With one hand on the steering wheel McKnight held out the other for my cigarette case.  “Perhaps,” he said; “but I don’t see what she would want with brass pipe.”

“A woman!” I laughed outright.  “You have been looking too hard at the picture in the back of your watch, that’s all.  There’s an experiment like that:  if you stare long enough—­”

But McKnight was growing sulky:  he sat looking rigidly ahead, and he did not speak again until he brought the Cannonball to a stop at the station.  Even then it was only a perfunctory remark.  He went through the gate with me, and with five minutes to spare, we lounged and smoked in the train shed.  My mind had slid away from my surroundings and had wandered to a polo pony that I couldn’t afford and intended to buy anyhow.  Then McKnight shook off his taciturnity.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t look so martyred,” he burst out; “I know you’ve done all the traveling this summer.  I know you’re missing a game to-morrow.  But don’t be a patient mother; confound it, I have to go to Richmond on Sunday.  I—­I want to see a girl.”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” I observed politely.  “Personally, I wouldn’t change places with you.  What’s her name—­North?  South?”

“West,” he snapped.  “Don’t try to be funny.  And all I have to say, Blakeley, is that if you ever fall in love I hope you make an egregious ass of yourself.”

In view of what followed, this came rather close to prophecy.