She took a long, long ride that day. She seemed to hear more than once, when she thought of turning back, the good Gremlins urging her to go on.
At last, having circled a row of hills, she turned once more toward the sea and there, just before her, nestling on a sloping hillside and half hidden by pines that stood out black against the snow, was the most charming colonial home she had ever seen.
It was a large house. Shapely white pillars adorned its broad porch. There were three great chimneys.
“A fireplace in every room,” she thought. “How old and perfectly charming it must be.”
Back of the house was a red barn with three white cupolas. On the roofs of the cupolas were many pigeons.
“All black pigeons,” she thought with a start.
Just then the bark of a dog startled her. The broad door to the house had opened. Three large dogs had come dashing out.
Their master called them back. She was glad. For a moment she had been terribly frightened.
She took one more look at the house, the barn, the dogs, and their master. Then, in sudden panic, she turned squarely about, leaped on her bicycle, and peddled back over the way she had come.
The man with the three dogs by the door of that lovely house was Carl Langer, the photographer. She still had that film he had tried to hide from her. But there were other causes for her sudden panic. Pictures were playing back and forth in her mind and she was hearing Lieutenant Warren telling of the man in India who had been shot as a spy.