"I've got it, I've got it!" I screamed, waltzing her around.
"You act like it," she said, laughing and disengaging herself. "What
have you got?"
"She's calling him up at the Belvedere! Telegram--telephone in
hall--light--Silhouette--go look!"
She ran all the way to the window, and then I had to sit down and tell
her just how I knew it must be the Man Silhouette. All the
circumstances were too plain. There was no doubt of it. Her intuition
backed up my judgment. We sat on the porch until after ten, and then a
closed taxi was driven rapidly to the little walk. A man, bundled in a
big coat, handed the chauffeur something and dismissed him, and hurried
up to the porch. The door swung open without summons and he entered.
Ten minutes later my wife said:
"I wonder if the belt has slipped off down at the power house?"