light flickering through the driving rain some two hundred yards away.
"All right," I acquiesced, climbing from the car, "we've lost so much time already we probably couldn't do anything for the Vivianti child, and maybe these people can put us on the right road, anyway."
Plunging through puddles like miniature lakes, soaked by the wind-driven rain, barking our shins again and again on invisible obstacles, we made for the light, finally drawing up to a large, square house of red brick fronted by an imposing white-pillared porch. Light streamed out through the fanlight over the white door and from the two tall windows flanking the portal.
"Parbleu, a house of circumstance, this," de Grandih commented, mounting the porch and banging lustily at the polished brass knocker.
I wrinkled my forehead in thought while he rattled the knocker a second time. "Strange, I can't remember this place," I muttered. "I thought I knew every building within thirty miles, but this is a new one"
"Ah bah!" de Grandin interrupted. "Always you must be casting a wet blanket on the parade, Friend Trowbridge. First you insist on losing us in the midst of a sacré rainstorm, then when I, Jules de Grandin, find us a shelter from the weather, you must needs waste time in wondering why it is you know not the place. Morbleu, you will refuse shelter because you have never been presented to the master of the house, if I do not watch you, I fear."
"But I ought to know the place, de Grandin," I protested. "It's certainly imposing enough to"
My defense was cut short by the sharp click of a lock, and the wide, white door swung inward before us.
We strode over the threshold, removing our dripping hats as we did so, and turned to address the person who had opened the door.
"Why" I began, and stared about me in open-mouthed surprize.
"Name of a little blue man!" said Jules de Grandin, and added his incredulous stare to mine.
As far ae we could see, we were alone in the mansion's imposing hall. Straight before us, perhaps for forty feet, ran a corridor of parquetry flooring, covered here and there by rieh-hued Oriental rugs. White-paneled walls, adorned with oil paintings of imposing-looking individuals, rose for eighteen feet or so to a beautifully frescoed ceiling, and a graceful, curving staircase swept upward from the farther end of the room. Candles in cut glass sconces lighted the high-ceiled apartment, the hospitable glow from a log fire burning under the high white marble mantel lent an air of homely coziness to the place, but of anything living, human or animal, there was no faintest trace or sign.
Click! Behind us, the heavy outer door swung to silently on well-oiled hinges and the automatic lock latched firmly.
"Death of my life!" de Grandin murmured, reaching for the door's silver-plated knob and giving it a vigorous twist. "Par la moustache du diable, Friend Trowbridge, it is locked! truly, perhaps it had been better if we had remained outside in the rain!"
"Not at all, I assure you, my dear sir," a rich, mellow voice answered him from the curve of the stairs. "Your arrival was nothing less than providential, gentlemen."
Coming toward us, walking heavily with the aid of a stout cane, was an unnsually handsome man attired in pajamas and dressing gown, a sort of nightcap of flowered silk on his white head, slippers of softest Morocco on his feet.
"You are a physician, sir?" he asked, glancing inquiringly at the medicine case in my hand.
