She seemed merely to be aware of something indefinable concealed in the uttermost depths of her.
It was Doubt, unborn.
The taxi drew up before her house. Rain was falling heavily, as she ran up the steps––a cold rain through which a few wet snowflakes slanted.
Her maid heard the rattle of her night-key and came to relieve her of her wet things, and to say that Miss Westgard had telephoned and had left a number to be called as soon as Miss Dumont returned.
The slip of paper bore John Estridge’s telephone 305 number and Palla seated herself at her desk and called it.
Almost immediately she heard Ilse’s voice on the wire.
“What is the matter, dear?” inquired Palla with the slightest shiver of that premonition which had haunted her all day.
But Ilse’s voice was cheerful: “We were so sorry not to go with you this evening, darling, but Jack is feeling so queer that he’s turned in and I’ve sent for a physician.”
“Shall I come around?” asked Palla.