Cottage. Beside her was Rao-Singh and in the front seat was Lucy, driving swiftly and expertly, with Roy Daly chattering into her unhearing ear. Mrs. Hodge had made sure that Jack and his adored blonde were in the next ear behind. Lucy's low, racy runabout swooped up and over and down the short, rolling Long Island hills until finally she swept it between a pair of sentinel pines into a wide, curved, bluestone drive and in front of a dimly lighted colonial mansion. It was a residence of much dignity and no little charm, resembling Jefferson's home at Monticello more than it did a society gambling resort.
Rao-Singh had hardly said three words to his seatmate during the ride. Carmelita had been noting his rather striking profile in the moonlight, his moody eyes, his thin yet sensual lips. He was a handsome, full-blooded creature, the sort of a man who might stir the pulses of almost any woman even though the major part of the fascination might be fear. The scrupulously proper manner in which he had treated her lowered the bars upon Carmelita's early fears.
Lucy dropped her guests at the entrance, parked the car down the drive among several other machines, and rejoined the trio. As yet there were no signs of life from the other side of the heavy, white door.
