_," she said, "for life--and," she looked toward
the grey envelope, "the other thing."

"I don't see----" Mildred began, and checked herself, gazing again at
the envelope.

Her mother turned swiftly and stood looking into the night. The man
called again and was not answered. The two women were motionless. There
was no sound in the room, save the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
Two minutes passed--three.

Mildred went toward the mantel, put out her hand, withdrew it. She
became conscious of the excessive heat and touched her forehead with her
handkerchief. She glanced at her mother's motionless figure, started to
speak, closed her parted lips. Indecision shook her. She put out her
hand again, picked up the envelope and stood tapping it against her left
palm.

Mrs. Brace, without moving, spoke at last:

"It's a few minutes of twelve. If you catch the midnight collection,
he'll get it, out there, by five o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

There was another pause.

Mildred went slowly to the door leading into the living room, and once
more she was on the point of speaking.

Mrs. Brace was drumming her fingers on the window ledge. The action
announced plainly that she had finished with the situation. Mildred put
her hand on the knob, pulled the door half-open, closed it again.

"I've changed my mind," she said, dreariness still in her voice. "He
can't refuse."

Her mother made no comment.

Mildred went into the living room.

"Gene," she said, with that indifference of tone which a woman employs
toward a man she despises, "I'm going down to mail this."

"Well, I'll swear!" he quarrelled sullenly. "Been in there all this time
writing to him!"

"Yes! Look at it!" she taunted viciously, and waved the envelope before
his eyes. "Sloanehurst!"

Taking up his hat, he went with her to the elevator.

II

THE WOMAN ON THE LAWN

Mr. Jefferson Hastings, unsuspecting that he was about to be confronted
with the most brutal crime in all his experience, regretted having come
to "Sloanehurst." He disapproved of himself unreservedly. Clad in an
ample, antique night-shirt, he stood at a window of the guest-room
assigned to him and gazed over the steel rims of his spectacles into the
hot, rainy night. His real vision, however, made no attempt to pierce
the outer darkness. His eyes were turned inward, upon himself, in
derision of his behaviour during the past three hours.

A kindly, reticent gentleman, who looked