As directed in the note, Wharton left the car in the road.  “For five minutes stay where you are,” he ordered Nolan; “then go to the bar and get a drink.  Don’t talk to any one or they’ll think you’re trying to get information.  Work around to the back of the house.  Stand where I can see you from the window.  I may want you to carry a message to Mr. Rumson.”

On foot Wharton walked up the curving driveway, and if from the house his approach was spied upon, there was no evidence.  In the second story the blinds were drawn and on the first floor the verandas were empty.  Nor, not even after he had mounted to the veranda and stepped inside the house, was there any sign that his visit was expected.  He stood in a hall, and in front of him rose a broad flight of stairs that he guessed led to the private supper-rooms.  On his left was the restaurant.

Swept and garnished after the revels of the night previous, and as though resting in preparation for those to come, it wore an air of peaceful inactivity.  At a table a maitre d’hotel was composing the menu for the evening, against the walls three colored waiters lounged sleepily, and on a platform at a piano a pale youth with drugged eyes was with one hand picking an accompaniment.  As Wharton paused uncertainly the young man, disdaining his audience, in a shrill, nasal tenor raised his voice and sang: 

  “And from the time the rooster calls
  I’ll wear my overalls,
    And you, a simple gingham gown. 
  So, if you’re strong for a shower of rice,
  We two could make a paradise
    Of any One-Horse Town.”

At sight of Wharton the head waiter reluctantly detached himself from his menu and rose.  But before he could greet the visitor, Wharton heard his name spoken and, looking up, saw a woman descending the stairs.  It was apparent that when young she had been beautiful, and, in spite of an expression in her eyes of hardness and distrust, which seemed habitual, she was still handsome.  She was without a hat and wearing a house dress of decorous shades and in the extreme of fashion.  Her black hair, built up in artificial waves, was heavy with brilliantine; her hands, covered deep with rings, and of an unnatural white, showed the most fastidious care.  But her complexion was her own; and her skin, free from paint and powder, glowed with that healthy pink that is supposed to be the perquisite only of the simple life and a conscience undisturbed.

“I am Mrs. Earle,” said the woman.  “I wrote you that note.  Will you please come this way?”

That she did not suppose he might not come that way was obvious, for, as she spoke, she turned her back on him and mounted the stairs.  After an instant of hesitation, Wharton followed.

As well as his mind, his body was now acutely alive and vigilant.  Both physically and mentally he moved on tiptoe.  For whatever surprise, for whatever ambush might lie in wait, he was prepared.  At the top of the stairs he found a wide hall along which on both sides were many doors.  The one directly facing the stairs stood open.  At one side of this the woman halted and with a gesture of the jewelled fingers invited him to enter.