when I looked at Jerry. She was like a frail shaft of burning ice. Her pointed tongue crept out to moisten her paralyzed lips. She put out her hand. “Give me your pen, Father,” she said—each word a drop of scathing fire. “Karen may have the stock—with pleasure.”
Judge Candler opened the drawer in front of him, took out a pen, dipped it into the silver inkstand under the reading lamp and held it out to her. As her fingers touched it Philander Doyle’s hand shot out again, grasped the paper in front of her, crumpled it and tossed it into the fire. Before Jerry could flash across the hearth rug to retrieve it the flames had licked it up, leaving one feather of grey and black curling on the poker. I turned around, my heart beating rapidly. Mr. Pepperday was putting on his overcoat. He bowed to the Judge and scurried out. Judge Candler stood motionless for an instant, a curious light flickering in his dark sombre eyes. Then, without a word, he pushed the desk drawer shut, came out into the room, picked up his daughter’s wrap and stood quietly holding it for her. Jeremy stood there a moment, a hot flush burning on her high cheekbones, her eyes smoldering embers. She stepped forward, her father put the coat around her slim bare shoulders.
Philander Doyle wrapped his white scarf around his neck and struggled into his overcoat.
“I hope we have something fit to eat,” he said heartily. “But we won’t. My sister’s been in charge of the kitchen. Allow me, Mrs. Latham.”
The front door burst open just as we started into the hall and Sandy burst in. “Hey!” he shouted. “Karen’s fit to be tied, everything’s getting cold!”
He darted a swift look at his sister, then at his father.
“Coming, my boy, coming,” Mr. Doyle said.
“Okay. You go ahead, I’ll lock the door. Don’t slip.”
Philander Doyle’s warm hand on my elbow squired me down the steps. I glanced back. Jerry was waiting for Sandy.
“Watch out, Mrs. Latham.”
Mr. Doyle’s grip tightened, steadying my precarious balance. But it wasn’t what he thought that had upset me. It was the sudden sight of my taxi still at the curb, and the sudden thought that came to me: what was the attorney looking into the management of Karen’s estate doing in the Doyle house with its master not there?
I wondered about that as we made our way along the slippery bricks toward the carriage house. Several cars were lined up in front of it now, and from inside came the warm laughter of people having a very good time.
“You go ahead,” I said. “I don’t want to spoil an entrance. I’ll wait for Jerry.”
His big voice gurgled joyously. “All right, Judge, I’ll be the bailiff.” He stepped forward and opened the door. I heard his jovial “Oyez, Oyez!” and the burst of laughter from inside, and I heard another door close across the street.
I went back to join the others. They had stopped and were looking back. I heard footsteps in the snow as the headlights of the taxi leaped up. Two men came into the lighted path, one with a heavily bandaged face, the other bareheaded in evening clothes. I saw Jerry’s hand shoot out and clutch Sandy’s arm as he swung around after one incredulous stare, and heard her voice: “Don’t, Sandy—please!”
The motor of the taxi raced violently, the door slammed.
“Come along, you two—I’m freezing!” I called, trying frantically to sound gay and normal.
They came toward me, and behind them, whistling, along the icy street came Roger Doyle.
6
We stepped from the dark street into a warm softly-lighted room all white and cherry-red and turquoise blue. It was gay and lovely, but so enormous that it took my breath away. For an instant I stood completely bewildered. Then I understood. The whole of one side and the entire end of the carriage house were one immense sheet of beautiful mirror glass, so that the small room with its cleverly concealed lighting looked twice as long and twice as wide as it actually was. The image of one side of the room, with its two windows draped in an Empire turquoise blue chintz with magenta flowers on a yellow stripe, and its pair of deep cherry red love seats, perfectly balanced the real side; the long glass-legged table against the mirrored wall was only half a table made whole by its own reflection. The floor was completely covered with the palest eggshell carpet, the chairs were chromium with white leather seats and backs. The garden end of the room was only the reflection of the entrance door and the two narrow chintz-draped windows full of flowers. It sounds fantastic, and it was actually exquisite and completely convincing.
Karen Lunt, her shining hair piled in a coronet of corn-colored curls, ravishingly slim in a black velvet frock that entirely covered her until she turned her totally bare back, came forward to meet us.
“It’s done with mirrors!” she laughed gaily. “Don’t you love it?”
“It’s enchanting!” I cried.
She dropped my hand. “Jerry!” She kissed her affectionately on the cheek. “Darling, you don’t look a bit well. It’s so sweet of you to come when you’d probably much rather be in bed. Hello, Sandy. Oh, here’s Roger! We’ve been out of our minds—I told everybody you were coming!—See?”
She took Roger Doyle’s arm in both hands and pulled him forward.
“Look, everybody! He’s really not horrid at all, he has a beautiful soul! Jerry, do take Mrs. Latham upstairs.”
We went up through a gay barrage of greeting. I knew everybody there, it seemed, except the handsome young man pouring a cocktail out of an enormous crystal shaker for Philander Doyle. “It’s an odd gathering,” I thought as I followed Jeremy up a tiny real staircase panelled in mirrors. There was one nationally syndicated columnist, a Northern senator and his charming wife, a woman whose name one constantly heard connected with all sorts of political intrigue and whose father had once been a power in the diplomatic game, the Doyles, the Candlers, myself and the young man with the cocktail shaker. As we reached the second floor I saw Miss Isabel Doyle emerge from what I suppose was the kitchen—she was licking her lips, anyway. She had on a fantastic violet lace gown studded with purple velvet bows that would have looked divine on an Edwardian debutante.
“Did I hear my dear brother?” she was asking, in that odd Vague manner of hers, and everybody broke into gales of laughter, especially Philander Doyle.
Jerry looked at me. She was perilously near tears.
“Buck up, my sweet—it’s just beginning,” I said. I laid my wrap across a glamorous shell-pink ivory satin divan. It was a practical enough bed, I suppose, fundamentally. I looked around at the mirrored walls, and at the tiny shell-pink bathroom beyond. Except for it there was nothing, really, to indicate a bedroom.
“It seems funny that . . . that this is the hayloft where the rats used to eat March Wind’s oats, doesn’t it?” Jerry said, with a strangled attempt to laugh. Suddenly she buried her head against my shoulder. “Oh, don’t let me be a fool tonight, will you, Grace!”
She broke away quickly and patted at her eyes with the puff I handed her from my vanity. “Ready?” she asked, and we went down stairs.
“You know everybody but Geoffrey, don’t you, Mrs. Latham?—This is Geoffrey McClure.”
