Yet as Baron neared the approach to the house he paused abruptly. He had been mistaken in believing there was no one near. In the heavy shadow of a maple-tree some one was standing—a woman. She was gazing at the lower windows of the Thornburg residence. And there was something in her bearing which seemed covert, surreptitious.
He, too, looked toward those windows. There was nothing there beyond a frankly cheerful interior. He could see no one.
What was the woman looking at? He glanced at her again, and a bough, swaying in the breeze, moved from its place so that the rays from a near-by lamp shone upon the figure which appeared to be standing on guard.
She was overdressed, Baron thought. Under an immense velvet hat weighted down with plumes masses of blond hair were visible. Her high, prominent cheek-bones were not at all in keeping with the girlish bloom which had been imparted to her cheeks by a too obvious artifice. She had caught up her skirt lightly in one hand, as if the attitude were habitual, and one aggressively elegant shoe was visible.
He had paused only momentarily. Now he proceeded on his way, passing the woman in the shadow with only half the width of the sidewalk between her and him.
He had recognized her. She was the woman who had stood in the theatre that night talking to Thornburg—who had visited Thornburg in his office. Could she be Miss Barry? Baron wondered.
A maid let him into the house and drew open a sliding door, revealing the lighted but empty drawing-room. She took his card and disappeared.
He sat for a time, counting the heavy minutes and listening intently for sounds which did not reach him. Then the manager and his wife entered the room, both bending upon him strangely expectant glances.
Baron arose. “I’ve taken the liberty—” he began, but Thornburg instantly swept all formalities aside.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Keep your seat.” Then, obviously, they waited for something which they expected he had come to say.