Sir. Mildred Cram

fog shrouded the house, dripped from the branches of trees, drenched the walks. Edward was alone.

      This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? Well, wasn’t it the whole purpose of his flight from Washington? To be alone? In the hospital, there was always a coming and going of doctors and nurses, someone to watch him, quick to spring at him with the everlasting query: “Are you feeling better, sir?” Better! Hah! Their real concern was with the window six stories above the sidewalk where he had been found leaning on the sill staring down with what might have been a purpose. There had been panic in the corridors, an urgent clamor of voices paging Dr. Brandt over the loud speakers.

      “Dr. Brandt, please. Emergency!”

      “Surely, Edward,” the startled physician said, “you weren’t thinking of jumping out? You know, you aren’t the only man to have lost his wife and children tragically. Better face up to it at once, before it sinks its fangs into your mind.” And Edward had said: “I’ll deal with it in my own way, in my own good time. Right now, I want very much to go home to Easterly.”

      And here he was.

      Halfway upstairs he noticed that he had left the library lamp lighted. He went back and turned it off, remembering that when he was a child he had been afraid of the dark. His father was contemptuous of such cowardice and ignored it, but his mother used to tiptoe down as soon as her husband was asleep and switch on the library lamp. A faint wedge of light would appear on the ceiling of Edward’s room at the top of the stairs and the terrified boy would come out from under the bedclothes.

      When he was seven his father said to him: “I know your mother gives in to you. Perhaps she doesn’t care if you grow up to be a coward. But I do. You can’t expect me to be your friend until you’ve conquered this fear of the dark. When you have, tell me. I’ll believe you. One thing I’m sure of: you’re honest.” And that night, as soon as his mother had performed her merciful deed, Edward slipped down and turned off the lamp.

      This was the way it had been ever since; whenever he feared anything he forced himself to grope for courage in the total dark. Courage. If you could kindle even a pinpoint of that light you could swing it ahead of you like an electric flash and so keep to the path. This was why he had left the hospital and the starched guardians of his safety, talking his way out with such disarming logic and cheerful charm that the entire staff agreed that it was the thing to do. A week’s rest in the country, then back to his desk! It remained for the Press to accept this. There had been rumors of a mental breakdown. Suspicious members of the Opposition bayed like hunting dogs across the fields of conjecture . . . And already a pair of reporters was at his heels! The rest couldn’t be far behind . . .

      He climbed the stairs slowly, seeing well enough by the last ruddy flicker of the fire in the hallway. A log broke in two and collapsed in a shower of sparks. Then there was only the rustle of hot ashes on the hearth.

      His bedroom had been furnished for the heir to millions, and Edward had always disliked it . . . the heavy mahogany bed with its plump, dark red coverlets, the vast bureau, the velvet curtains . . . all of it stuffy and melancholy. There was a scent of camphor and in the adjoining bathroom a lingering trace of lavender. Mrs. Littlefield had filled the racks with linen hand-towels and over-sized bath-towels. But she hadn’t turned back the bedclothes or unpacked Edward’s suitcase; these were menial duties once the privilege of a proud dynasty of family servants. Nor had Mr. Littlefield laid a fire; he had dumped an armload of kindling and a few pine logs on the hearth and left it at that.

      Edward made ready for bed, ignoring his reflection in the bathroom mirror. This was a habit of his. He disliked being reminded that his face was a sort of Party trademark, like the elephant and the donkey. Someone had said of him that he was larger than life and twice as real . . . a cartoonist’s delight. He scrubbed and splashed now as if to rid himself of the lake water that somehow seemed unclean because that fellow had bled into it.

      He lay for a long time testing and disciplining his thoughts. The urge to kill himself hadn’t recurred since that moment in the wood and his flight to the end of the dock. He had been startled out of his almost-realized intention by the girl’s voice, and ever since had been relieved of the agony.

      Eithne had decided that he was past the danger of cracking up, and that she could relax. Only first she must see to it that this girl didn’t try to spend the night . . . she was obviously the sort who would, at the drop of a hat. And to Edward’s surprise, his sister had suddenly switched to cordiality: “I’ll drive you back to New York, Miss Donahue. You can wear one of my coats. And Edward will let you have a shirt and a pair of socks. Mrs. Littlefield will show you where you can change. Only don’t be too long. It’s quite late.”

      “Thank you,” the girl said, and followed the caretaker’s wife.

      “She can’t stay here, of course,” Eithne said.

      “Why not?”

      Eithne shrugged. “She’s very pretty.”

      “Is she?”

      “Besides, dear Edward, she’d make capital of the situation. I know her kind. They’re a dime a dozen in Washington. Little nymphs with an eye out for important men.”

      Edward smiled.

      “Yes. I mean you! Now more than ever!” Eithne broke off, aware that she had crossed into forbidden territory: Dr. Brandt had warned her not to remind Edward of his loss. “Don’t worry,” she said quickly, with an executive smile, “I’ll get rid of her.”

      When the girl reappeared, wearing Eithne’s coat, Edward realized that she was indeed very pretty. He had seen girls like her in Ireland, with smudged-in, black-lashed gray eyes and flushed cheeks. Halfway down the stairs she paused to look at a painting . . . a misty river and a blurred moon . . . one of half a dozen small canvases banked on the stair wall. It was the briefest pause but it served to steady her for Eithne’s inspection.

      “If you’re ready, Miss Donahue? Shall we go?”

      Eithne kissed Edward’s cheek. “Goodbye, dear. Take care of yourself. And let me know if you change your mind about staying here. You will! I give you a week at most!”

      The girl hung back long enough to take Edward’s outstretched hand. “Goodbye. Look for my dog, won’t you? I’ll call tomorrow. And if you find him, I’ll come back for him. Remember, his name’s Murphy.”

      “Murphy,” Edward repeated.

      For a moment, clasping hands, they regarded each other. There were things the girl might have said . . . the usual, expected things. She didn’t say any of them, yet Edward had the impression that she was sorry for what had happened.

      “I hope your friend’s going to be all right,” he said politely.

      “He’s not my friend,” she said. “I met him in a bar day before yesterday. But Murphy is my friend! He’s big and silly and brave and full of love . . . Find him, please!”

      It was probably a trick. A way of getting back to Easterly. And yet Edward lay awake listening for the barking of a dog. He found himself wondering whether there had been something sinister about the girl and her companion; they certainly weren’t reporters of the trench coat variety . . . Whatever their purpose, they had failed so far to hurt anyone but themselves. The village doctor had called back to say that the wounded man would recover but that he had had a close call. Who would be responsible for the expenses? And Edward had said promptly: “I will, of course. The accident happened on my property. They hit a rut as deep as an Alpine crevasse.” The doctor snorted and asked what they were doing that far off the highway and at that hour? “Were they after you, Edward? Ever since Kennedy’s death I’ve been concerned about you.” It was Edward’s turn to snort. “Me? Nonsense. No one wants to kill me.” The doctor remarked that this was perhaps so. “Not yet, perhaps. But in a year or so . . . Well, we’ll search the car in the morning. We might find evidence. I understand Eithne drove the girl back to New York. I hope she was smart enough to notify the police. This whole thing smells, Edward!”

      “Did