olan; "then go to the bar and
get a drink. Don't talk to any one or they'll think you're trying to get
information. Work around to the back of the house. Stand where I can see
you from the window. I may want you to carry a message to Mr. Rumson."

On foot Wharton walked up the curved drive-way, and if from the house
his approach was spied upon, there was no evidence. In the second story
the blinds were drawn and on the first floor the verandas were empty.
Nor, not even after he had mounted to the veranda and stepped inside
the house, was there any sign that his visit was expected. He stood in a
hall, and in front of him rose a broad flight of stairs that he guessed
led to the private supper-rooms. On his left was the restaurant.

Swept and garnished after the revels of the night previous, and as
though resting in preparation for those to come, it an air of peaceful
inactivity. At a table a maitre d'ho'tel was composing the menu for the
evening, against the walls three colored waiters lounged sleepily, and
on a platform at a piano a pale youth with drugged eyes was with one
hand picking an accompaniment. As Wharton paused uncertainly the young
man, disdaining his audience, in a shrill, nasal tenor raised his voice
and sang:

"And from the time the rooster calls I'll wear my overalls,
And you, a simple gingham gown. So, if you're strong for a
shower of rice, We two could make a paradise Of any One-Horse Town."

At sight of Wharton the head waiter reluctantly detached himself from
his menu and rose. But before he could greet the visitor, Wharton heard
his name spoken and, looking up, saw a woman descending the stairs. It
was apparent that when young she had been beautiful, and, in spite of an
expression in her eyes of hardness and distrust, which seemed habitual,
she was still handsome. She was without a hat and wearing a house dress
of decorous shades and in the extreme of fashion. Her black hair, built
up in artificial waves, was heavy with brilliantine; her hands, covered
deep with rings, and of an unnatural white, showed the most fastidious
care. But her complexion was her own; and her skin, free from paint
and powder, glowed with that healthy pink that is supposed to be the
perquisite only of the simple life and a conscience undisturbed.

"I am Mrs. Earle," said the woman. "I wrote you that note. Will you
please come this way?"

That she did not suppose he might not come that way was obvious, for,