At ten minutes after eight I was back in the house. Mr. Reed admitted
me, going through the tedious process of unlocking outer and inner
vestibule doors and fastening them again behind me. He inquired politely
if I had had a pleasant walk, and without waiting for my reply fell to
reading the evening paper. He seemed to have forgotten me absolutely.
First he scanned the headlines; then he turned feverishly to something
farther on and ran his fingers down along a column. His lips were
twitching, but evidently he did not find what he expected—or feared—for
he threw the paper away and did not glance at it again. I watched him
from the angle of the stairs.
Even for that short interval Mrs. Reed had taken his place at the
children’s door.
She wore a black dress, long sleeved and high at the throat, instead of
the silk negligee of the previous evening, and she held a book. But she
was not reading. She smiled rather wistfully when she saw me.
“How fresh you always look!” she said. “And so self-reliant. I wish I
had your courage.”
“I am perfectly well. I dare say that explains a lot. Kiddies asleep?”
“Freddie isn’t. He has been crying for Chang. I hate night, Miss Adams.
I’m like Freddie. All my troubles come up about this time. I’m horribly
depressed.”
Her blue eyes filled with tears.
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” she confessed.