“For Heaven’s sake, Louise,” Gertrude burst out, “tell us what is wrong. Halsey is not here. He has gone to the station for Mr. Jamieson. What has happened?”
“To the station, Gertrude? You are sure?”
“Yes,” I said. “Listen. There is the whistle of the train now.”
She relaxed a little at our matter-of-fact tone, and allowed herself to sink into a chair.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” she said heavily. “He—will be here in a few moments if—everything is right.”
We sat there, the three of us, without attempt at conversation. Both Gertrude and I recognized the futility of asking Louise any questions: her reticence was a part of a role she had assumed. Our ears were strained for the first throb of the motor as it turned into the drive and commenced the climb to the house. Ten minutes passed, fifteen, twenty. I saw Louise’s hands grow rigid as they clutched the arms of her chair. I watched Gertrude’s bright color slowly ebbing away, and around my own heart I seemed to feel the grasp of a giant hand.
Twenty-five minutes, and then a sound. But it was not the chug of the motor: it was the unmistakable rumble of the Casanova hack. Gertrude drew aside the curtain and peered into the darkness.
“It’s the hack, I am sure,” she said, evidently relieved. “Something has gone wrong with the car, and no wonder—the way Halsey went down the hill.”
It seemed a long time before the creaking vehicle came to a stop at the door. Louise rose and stood watching, her hand to her throat. And then Gertrude opened the door, admitting Mr. Jamieson and a stocky, middle-aged man. Halsey was not with them. When the door had closed and Louise realized that Halsey had not come, her expression changed. From tense watchfulness to relief, and now again to absolute despair, her face was an open page.
“Halsey?” I asked unceremoniously, ignoring the stranger. “Did he not meet you?”