The Massingale town house was one of a row of stuccoed villas fronting on the main residence street, which beyond the city limits became the highroad to the Quadjenàï bend and the upper valley. Brouillard took a cab at the Metropole, dismissed it at the villa gate, and walked briskly up the path to the house, which was dark save for one lighted room on the second floor—the room in which Stephen Massingale was recovering from the effects of Van Bruce Cortwright's pistol-shot.
Amy Massingale was on the porch—waiting for him, as he fully believed until her greeting sufficiently proved her surprise at seeing him.
"You, Victor?" she said, coming quickly to meet him. "Murray Grislow said you had gone down to the Buckskin camps and wouldn't be back for two or three days!"
"Grizzy told the truth—as it stood a few hours ago," he admitted. "But I changed my mind and came back. How is Steve this evening?"
"He is quite comfortable, more comfortable than he has been at all since the wound began to heal. I have been reading him to sleep, and when the night nurse came I ran down to get a breath of fresh air in the open."
"No, you didn't come down for that reason," Brouillard amended gravely. "You came to meet me."
"Did I?" she asked. "What makes you think that?"
"I don't think; I know. You called me, and I heard you and came at once."
"How absurd!" she protested. "I knew, or thought I knew, that you were miles away, over in the Buckskin; and how could I call you?"
Brouillard pulled out his watch and scanned its face by the light of the roadway electric.