been my fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed.
“Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?” I asked, trying to appear as indifferent as I could.
“I didn’t go,” she replied abruptly. “Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?”
“In the boudoir.”
Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she shut behind her.
As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later,
She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger.
“Young man, trust me. I’ve lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You’ll see what I mean.”
The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. John’s