He opened the gate and went in, the “Journal” reporter and I following—all three of us wiping our half-blinded eyes. When we reached the shelter of the front porch, I took the key from my pocket and opened the door.
“I live here,” I explained to Mr. Peck.
“All right,” he said. “Jest step in and tell George Dowden that Sim Peck's out here and wants to see him at the door a minute. Be quick.”
I went into the library, and there sat Dowden contemplatively playing bridge with two of the elderly ladies and Miss Apperthwaite. The last-mentioned person quite took my breath away.
In honor of the Christmas Eve (I supposed) she wore an evening dress of black lace, and the only word for what she looked has suffered such misuse that one hesitates over it: yet that is what she was—regal—and no less! There was a sort of splendor about her. It detracted nothing from this that her expression was a little sad: something not uncommon with her lately; a certain melancholy, faint but detectable, like breath on a mirror. I had attributed it to Jean Valjean, though perhaps to-night it might have been due merely to bridge.
“What is it?” asked Dowden, when, after an apology for disturbing the game, I had drawn him out in the hall.
I motioned toward the front door. “Simeon Peck. He thinks he's got something on Mr. Beasley. He's waiting to see you.”
Dowden uttered a sharp, half-coherent exclamation and stepped quickly to the door. “Peck!” he said, as he jerked it open.
“Oh, I'm here!” declared that gentleman, stepping into view. “I've come around to let you know that you couldn't laugh like a horse at ME no more, George Dowden! So YOU weren't invited, either.”
“Invited?” said Dowden, “Where?”