I resumed my talk with Arthurjean. "You'd better stay here, too," I told her. "It's getting late and they lock up the trains on the New Haven road along with the cows."
She looked the question at me.
"Nope!" I replied sturdily. "I'm going to drive back and see whether spring has come to Bedford Hills. Even commuters have children now and then," I added. "They used to blame it on sunspots or Roosevelt but now I guess they'll have nobody to blame but themselves."
In return for a five-spot the hotel door-man told me how to find the nearest Black Market gas-station, so I tanked up the Packard and worked myself across country until I hit the Parkway.
The night was clear and cool but there was a hint of blossoms in the air.
Vail was right. Spring had come to the commuters and I thought sardonically of what could be expected at every country club the next night—Saturday. I missed the turn-off for Bedford Hills and wasted a couple of hours wandering amiss through the maze of Westchester roads, but finally I found myself on a familiar road and soon eased the Packard to a slow stop on the crackling gravel of the entrance of Pook's Hill.
I left my bags in the car and walked quietly along the grass until I let myself in at front door. A muffled woof from the kitchen showed that Ponto had drowsily recognized my tread as I tip-toed up the stairs and into my bedroom. It was three o'clock in the morning and the frogs were still jingling in the marshy meadows as I stood by the window and tasted the night air. Then I undressed rapidly and put on a dressing-gown and slippers. I turned off the lights and tip-toed across the hall to my wife's bedroom.
Her door was closed but, when I turned the handle, it proved not to be locked or bolted. I closed it softly behind me and approached the edge of the bed. Germaine was sleeping quietly, the faint glow of the starlight outlining her dark hair against the white pillow.
Suddenly she started.
"What? Who's that?" she cried.