CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IF for a moment I was swayed by an impulse to follow Wendy Washburn out of that somewhat bewildering house, I at least had the sense not to succumb to any such impulse.

It was plain enough, in the first place, that I wasn't wanted. In the second place, it was equally plain that I couldn't be of much use to that somewhat compromising Hero-Man of mine. And in the third place, since my sojourn under that particular roof carried every evidence of being rather limited, there was a situation or two which I preferred to investigate in person.

As I stood alone in the morning-room, beside our dismantled breakfast-table, I hesitated for only a moment. Then I made for the silent hallway, slipped up the stairs and hurried quickly to the door of the room where I had slept. My movements, under the circumstances, were as noiseless as I could make them. For I had a few things to settle in my own mind before parting company with those silent and shadowy upper regions.