the porch where, at the door, she turned and spoke to him, at last. "Good night, Gregg," she said quietly, without offering her hand.
He was shaking now and his lips trembled so that he had to make an effort to speak. "I'm going in with you," he said and himself turned the knob and opened the door.
When she preceded him into the hall, he witnessed a spasmodic tightening of tension in her which caught him up with more piteous yearning to serve her. She scarcely seemed conscious of what she was doing. It had become so much of a habit for her, immediately upon entering her home, to strain every sense in apprehension of what might have happened during her absence.
Very gently Gregg took her cape from her; he dropped his own overcoat. "Come in here." He led her into the drawing-room, which was empty but lighted, and at the farther end of which a fire was burning on the hearth. There was a lounge before the fire and Marjorie, taken to it, sat down; but Gregg remained standing.
"You said to Rinderfeld you're not going to Europe with your mother; what do you mean to do?"
She refused him answer; so he demanded, "You'll stay here with your father?"
She looked up at that. "No."
"Why not?"
"I was here with father when he found—Clearedge Street." And she turned from him and from the fire also and stared off.
"Where are you going?" he asked and, still, refused answer, repeated it twice. Then he said:
"You can keep from telling me but you can't keep
