CHAPTER VI
MARJORIE began dressing about half-past nine in the morning. She had been out of bed and in many times during the hours since she undressed about three o'clock; at most of these times she had stirred purely from nervousness, but after dawn she had assigned to herself errands such as gaining possession of the newspaper, as soon as Sarah had brought it in from the porch, and listening when Martin, the houseman, answered a telephone ring.
The newspaper printed not a word about Charles Hale, not a mention of the shooting on Clearedge Street or anything about any one named Russell; and the telephone brought no alarm. The big, warm, pleasant house was as quiet and secure-seeming as upon any other morning after her father had gone away and she and her mother were sleeping late.
It was a quiet morning outside and the bright, yellow sunlight, striking through the bare trees to the snow-covered roof of the porch and shining upon the lawn, bore enough heat to dissolve the whiteness into wet, glistening patches; the sun brought the white and purple pigeons fluttering from a neighboring barn and set them to preening on the damp, steamy walk; and a flock of brown sparrows came, cheerily squabbling and chattering. When Marjorie again opened her door at the ringing of the telephone, she heard the snapping of a wood fire below; in the dining room, of course. Her mother always liked a fire at breakfast in the winter.
