“No need to be in a hurry,” she said indolently, yawning a little as she moved with a luxuriant stretching of muscles to a more comfortable position among the cushions.
“Good-night,” I said curtly. “And do have some light!” As I spoke I reached abruptly for the lamp cord, pulled it, and the green light fell on the davenport.
Corole sprang upright with a startled half word, clutched the Chinese scarf and pulled it more securely over her feet.
“Good-night,” I said again and left.
Huldah was waiting in the hall. As I took my coat it seemed to me that there was something hesitant in her attitude, as if she wanted to speak to me, but I was in a hurry and furthermore in no mood to condole with her. So I threw the slicker over my shoulders and splashed along the sodden path.
I scarcely noticed the rain, however, nor the cold discomforts of the path. When I entered the south wing and slipped quietly along its hushed length, I was still rotating in my mind a certain question.
When the light had flashed on there in Dr. Letheny’s study, I had caught a brief but distinct view of Corole’s slippers. They were beautiful pumps, high-heeled bronze kid with dainty, cut-steel buckles. But they were mud-stained and sodden with moisture and had wet leafmold clinging to them.
Where had Corole Letheny gone that afternoon? What errand had been so urgent that she had gone out of the house through the rain and storm in such haste that she had not had time to remove those dainty slippers?
Facing my own white, tired face in the mirror, I pushed my loosened hair together, removed little torn pieces of leaves from it and righted my cap. My shoes were soaked, so I changed them. Premonitory pangs of neuralgia began to shoot over my left temple, and I wished that I had not stood so long in the rain talking to Jim Gainsay.
With the thought came memory of the note with which I had been intrusted and I planned to give it to Maida at dinner; the bell was just ringing for the meal, then.