He did. There was a break in the fence at last, made by a gateway between stone pillars, and here he saw, by the light of a match, “Day’s End,” in gilt letters. He opened the gate and went in; a long driveway stretched before him, tree lined; he went up it briskly.
He saw nothing, and heard nothing, but he had a vague impression that the grounds through which he passed were somber and forbidding, and he expected to see a house in keeping with this notion, an old, sinister house, suitable for people in “terrible trouble.”
It was not like that, though. A turn in the driveway brought him in sight of a long façade of lighted windows, and a large, substantial, matter-of-fact house—which made him feel more of a fool than ever. Yet, still he went on, mounted the steps of a brick terrace, and rang the doorbell.
The door was opened promptly by a pale and disagreeable young housemaid.
“I want to see Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper,” said Ross.
“You ought to go to the back door!” she remarked sharply. “You ought to know that much!”
Ross did not like this, but it was not his habit to let his temper override discretion.
“All right!” he said, and was turning away, ready to go to the back door, ready to go anywhere, so that he accomplished his mission, when the housemaid relented.
“As long as you’re here, you can come in,” she said. “This way!”
He followed her across a wide hall, with a polished floor and a fine old stairway rising from it, to a door at the farther end.