She waited fifteen seconds then pushed the bell again. There was no sound of motion from the interior of the house.
Bertha stepped back from the door to make a more careful appraisal of the house. There was about it almost a deserted atmosphere. The shades were pulled about two-thirds of the way down. There was an accumulation of dust in the corner of the threshold where the front door was recessed from the porch.
Disappointed, Bertha jabbed her thumb against the door-button once again and turned to appraise the neighbourhood.
The sun, shielded by a low-hanging bank of clouds in the west, had given the effect of an early twilight. The day had, however, been warm. In a yard across the street some children were playing — a girl eight or nine, and a boy a couple of years younger.
Bertha walked across to them. “Who lives in that house across the street?” she asked.
It was the girl who answered the question. “Mr. and Mrs. Cuttring.”
“They don’t seem to be home.”
The girl hesitated.
The boy blurted out, “They went away for a ten-day vacation.”
The girl said, “Mother told you not to say anything about that. Burglars get in when they know people aren’t home.”