She went to her own home first. Her aunt was in the country, but the
servants gave her a warm welcome, and after resting for an hour, she took
her way to the residence of Archer Trevlyn, but a few squares distant.
A strange silence seemed to hang over the palatial mansion. The blinds
were closed--there was no sign of life about the premises. A thrill of
unexplained dread ran through her frame as she touched the silver-handled
bell. The servant who answered her summons seemed to partake of the
strange, solemn quiet pervading everything.
"Is Mr. Trevlyn in?" she asked, trembling in spite of herself.
"I believe Mr. Trevlyn has left the country, madam."
"Left the country? When did he go?"
"Some days ago."
Margie leaned against the carved marble vase which flanked the massive
doorway, unconsciously crushing the crimson petals of the trumpet-flower
which grew therein. What should she do? She could write to him. His wife
would know his address. She caught at the idea.
"Mrs. Trevlyn--take me to her! She was an old friend of mine."
The man looked at her curiously, hesitated a moment, and motioning her
to enter, indicated the closed door of the parlor.
"You can go in, I presume, as you are a friend of the family."
A feeling of solemnity, which was almost awe, stole over Margie as she
turned the handle of the door, and stepped inside the parlor.
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