The square entrance hall was sweet with flowers in the early
spring evening, Oriental rugs were spread on the dull mirror of
the floor, opened doors gave glimpses of airy colonial interiors,
English chintzes crowded with gay colored fruits and flowers,
brick fireplaces framed in classic white and showing a brave gleam
of brass firedogs in the soft lamplight. Not a book on the long
tables, not an etching on the dull rich paper of the walls, struck
a false note. It was all exquisitely in tone.
But Rachael Breckenridge, at best, saw less its positive
perfections than the tiniest opening through which an imperfection
might push its way, and in such an hour as this she saw it not at
all. Her mouth a trifle firm in its outline, her face a little
pale, she went quickly up the wide white stairway and along the
open balcony above. There were several doors on this balcony,
which was indeed the upper hall. Mrs. Breckenridge opened one of
them without knocking, and closed it noiselessly behind her.
The room into which she admitted herself presented exactly the
picture she had expected. The curtains, again of richly colored
cretonne, were drawn, a softly toned lamp on the reading table,
and another beside the bed, cast circles of pleasant light on the
comfortable wicker chairs, the cream-colored woodwork, and the
scattered books and magazines. Several photographs of Carol,
beautifully framed, were on bookcase and dresser, and a fine oil
painting of the child at fourteen looked down from the mantel. On
the bed, a mahogany four-poster, with carved pineapples finishing
the posts, the frilled cretonne cover had been flung back; Mr.
Breckenridge had retired; his blond head was sunk in the pillows;
he clutched the blankets about him with his arms, his face was not
visible.
A quiet manservant, who was by turns butler, chauffeur, and valet,
was stepping softly about the room. Rachael interrogated him in a
low tone: "Asleep, Alfred?"
"Oh, no, ma'am!" the man said quickly. "He's been feeling ill. He
says he has a chill."
"When did he get home?" the wife asked.
"About half an hour ago, Mrs. Breckenridge. Mr. Butler telephoned
me. Some of the gentlemen were going on--to one of the beach
hotels for dinner, I believe, but Mr. Breckenridge felt himself
too unwell to join them, so I went for him with the little car,
and Mr. Joe Butler and Mr. Parks came home with him, Mrs.
Breckenridge."
"Do you know if he went to bed last night at all?"
"No, ma'am, he said he did not. All the gentlemen looked as if
they--looked as if they might have--" Alfred hesitated delicately.
"It was Mr. Berry Stokes' bachelor dinner," he presently added.