An hour later Jean rang the bell of a shabby, two-story house out on the Mission Road. The house stood a little back in a dusty, parched patch of ground, where a few wilting geraniums struggled against the dust-laden wind that blew always over the bare hills. A half-grown girl opened the door. She seemed parched by the ceaseless wind and her dry hair looked as if it had never been quite free of the dust.
"Does Mrs. Gorman live here?"
"Back room. She ain't Mrs." The girl stood staring while Jean knocked on a door at the end of the dark hall.
"Come in."
It was a small room and held only a single bed, a child's crib, a broken dresser and a chair. An emaciated woman sat up in bed and looked at Jean with the calmest look of appraisal that had ever summed her up.
"You're from the Hill House. It wouldn't be anybody else. Are you Dr. Mary MacLean?"
"No, I'm not Dr. McLean. She had to go out of town. My name is Herrick."
"Miss or Mrs.?"
"Mrs."
"I'm glad of that." The woman's voice was perfectly detached, as if something bigger than a personal desire in the matter directed her.