Late that afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Philip Peirce reached the Warren house. Three pulls at the bell brought no response, and all rattlings and shakings of the doorknob were without result. The door was as tightly closed as though it never expected to be opened again till the crack o’ doom.
At the back of the house the same conditions existed. Not a door, not a window, would yield.
Nancy was plainly vexed. “The Prodigal Son had a much better time than this when he came home,” she complained, ruefully.
She and Phil walked around to the front of the house again, and down the nasturtium-bordered path that led from the porch to the street. There was absolutely no sign of life anywhere.
Suddenly, Nancy heard the “touf-touf” of an automobile, and down the road at a rapid pace came Mr. James Thornton’s gorgeous machine, the chauffeur its sole occupant.
“Henry,” she said, walking to the edge of the sidewalk, “can you tell me where Mrs. Warren is?”
“No, miss, I cannot.” He drew himself up stiffly. Mrs. Warren’s daughter was evidently in his bad books.
“Is Mr. Thornton at home?” she asked, timidly.
“No, miss, he is not.” His lips clicked. Then, with sudden condescension, and head held very high, eyes looking straight ahead, he added: “Mr. Thornton is away on his wedding trip.”
“His what?” gasped Nancy, weakly.