Her knock at the front door became more imperative than polite, more a demand than an appeal.
No one opened the door.
The girl did not knock again. A sudden gust of wind blew her forward. She caught hold of the knob, felt it turn and pushed open the door.
The room inside was warm, glowing and empty.
Tory called, but there was no reply.
By the side of the fireplace was a pile of logs sufficient to last twenty-four hours. Removing her wraps and replenishing the fire, the newcomer sat down on the stool she regarded as her especial property.
There was not much light in the wide room save the flames of crimson and gold from the fire. The window blinds were open, but the sunlight of an hour before had vanished. The light through the glass was gray and opaque.
Tory frowned. Yet she was really extremely comfortable and reasonably serene again. Christmas was not far off. Her uncle had promised to take her for her first visit to New York. With her artist father she had been in London, Paris and Rome; and the time was approaching when she should behold the greatest city in her own country.
Tory Drew’s frown at present was not for herself or Katherine Moore. She was troubled by Memory Frean’s absence from her home.
No need to ponder where she had gone, or why.