"I was told at the little shop that a chauffeur lived here," he explained, pleasantly enough. The glare of the sun on snow dazzled his first vision. "Our compressed air system is out of order, and my man forgot to put in a hand-pump. I——"
His voice trailed away into silence. He had seen her face.
"Elsie?" he doubted. "Elsie?"
She smiled at him with her serene composure, although deep color swept over her face with the startled movement of her blood.
"Mrs. Adriance," she corrected. "Will you not come in? I am sorry Mr. Adriance is not at home."
He crossed the threshold mechanically, his gaze not leaving her.
"I did not believe it," he exclaimed, under his breath. "I thought Lucille—lied."
"Mr. Masterson!"
He shook his head in deprecation of offense, continuing his scrutiny of her. He had the appearance of a man fevered by drink or illness; his eyes were bright behind a surface glaze, his face was haggard, yet flushed. His features, always of a fineness almost suggesting effeminacy, had sharpened to an extreme delicacy that promised little for health or endurance.
"They told me a chauffeur lived here," he said, presently.