“Miss Marshall?”
“Yes, I’m Kate Marshall. And you?”
“Bertha, Miss Elsie’s maid.” She turned toward a middle-aged round little Irishman in brown livery. “Timothy,” she said, “it’s her.” Alas, for the distinction of the black toque!
Timothy stepped briskly forward and picked up Kate’s suitcase, touching his cap, but giving her a quick, keenly interested glance at the same time. “Your trunk checks, if you please, Miss?” he said, holding out his free hand for them.
“Why, there isn’t a trunk. The suitcase is all.”
“Didn’t the trunk catch this train?” Bertha asked, and added in a commiserating tone, “Service is wretched—Miss Frazier says so.”
“I didn’t have any trunk at all. The suitcase holds everything.”
Bertha’s ejaculation of surprise was suddenly turned into a flow of tactful words. “All the better, all the better. That makes things very simple, very simple. We’ve only to go out to the automobile then, and we’ll be in Oakdale in no time.”
Little round Timothy led the way with the bag and book, Kate followed him, and Bertha came behind her. She was not used to walking in processions like this, and she felt distinctly strange and lonely. But the thought that Elsie might be waiting in the car braced her up. Even so she couldn’t imagine why Elsie hadn’t come in and been the first to greet her at the gate. If she were Elsie she would never sit calmly waiting out in the car.
But the car was empty. It was a very handsome, big, luxurious affair, painted a light glossy brown, the very shade of Timothy’s uniform. It had a long, low body, much shining nickel plate, windshields before the back seat as well as the front, and Great Aunt Katherine Frazier’s monogram in silver on the door.