Tiptoeing, in stockinged feet, she ventured cautiously into the room, casting a frustrated glance at the door that opened into the hall. She wished there were some way of locking it, so she would have warning if anyone came. But the smooth dark surface of the door was unmarred by bolt or chain. She turned to look at the back of the door by which she had entered the room. No-no bolt there either. So, he had never had one put on.

Why had she supposed that he would? Because she had done so. That was illogical. She knew what he would say if anyone asked him-any one of those few who knew what had happened on That Night. Barring his door to her would have been a symbolic thrusting away, a rejection of need and a denial of trust.

She crossed the room. Carefully, touching only the ornate brass knob so that no smudge would mar the gleaming wood, she pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. Handkerchiefs, neat, plain, pure white, without even a monogram. She put out her hand and then drew it back, biting her lip. Damn Haworth and his neatness. It would be impossible to touch anything without leaving a sign of disturbance. The corners of the folded handkerchiefs might have been aligned with a ruler. And damn Gordon, too. He was a fanatic about neatness, he had trained Haworth, and he would be the first to notice the slightest irregularity.

More drawers. Pajamas, neatly folded. Coiled belts, looking like flat, curled snakes. Leather boxes, containing studs, cuff links, and his grand-father’s ornate rings-one of the old gentleman’s habits that Gordon had not emulated. More underwear. Nothing else. Nothing else visible.

She would have to risk it. Her lower lip caught between her teeth, she turned back to the top drawer and delicately lifted a pile of handkerchiefs. There was nothing underneath except the immaculate lining of the drawer. Her hands began to shake as she returned the handkerchiefs to their place and went to the next pile.

Still nothing.

It was hard to control her hands, they shook so. The silence of the room was unnatural; her ears rang with it. No-it wasn’t her ears, it was a fly, trapped against one of the windows. Stupid insect. There was an open window within a few inches of its frantic lunges against the glass. For a long moment Linda stood perfectly still, staring at the small, frantic black dot. The buzzing droned in her ears. She turned back to her self-appointed chore with an abruptness that swept a pajama jacket out of alignment. What was under it?

Nothing. Nothing except the lining of the drawer.

Gradually her movements became quicker, jerkier. She shoved at the last drawer of the dresser, turned, before it had stopped moving, toward the tall bureau.

Sweaters. Folded neatly, encased in plastic bags. Nothing under the sweaters. Scarves. Nothing…

Slowly, like a creeping stain, the yellow path of sunlight from the window moved across the rug. As its warmth brushed her arm, Linda flinched and jerked around. It was late, dangerously late. How much longer before the conference ended, before Gordon came up to dress for dinner?

It didn’t matter. She had finished the search. There was nothing here, and she ought to have known there would be nothing. Only her desperate desire for something concrete, some proof that might affect an unprejudiced mind, had driven her to what she knew would be a wasted search. It was his study she ought to investigate. His study, or…

The sunlight seemed brighter; it hurt her eyes. Her breathing was so uneven, it caught at her throat in sharp gasps. Nerves. She was getting upset. And that was bad, because tonight she had to be perfect. Calm, and composed, and…She needed something to calm her nerves.

Gordon’s study, or-the other place. The most likely place, and the one room that she could not risk searching. Because the secretary had arranged with the servants to clean it himself, and there was no conceivable reason why she should need to enter Jack Briggs’s private quarters. If anyone found her there-if he found her…

A long shiver ran through her body. Dropping the last scarf back into the drawer, she turned and ran across the room, on soft stockinged feet. The bottle, the comforting, reliable bottle in the bottom drawer of her dressing table…

She closed the door and shot the bolt into place-leaving behind the marks of her feet imprinted as clearly in velvety pile as in snow, and two drawers standing open, spilling out their contents onto the floor.

WHEN LINDA WOKE, IT WAS GETTING DARK OUTSIDE. The high windows were gray oblongs; the dim light within the room reduced furniture and hangings to unfamiliar menaces.

She sat up, brushing the strands of hair back from her face. Her mouth was horribly dry. She reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and swallowed it down, so grateful for the relief to parched membranes that she hardly noticed its stale taste. Still fuzzy with sleep, she didn’t think about the time until her half-closed eyes lit on the illumined dial of the clock.

She jumped up from the bed and stood swaying dizzily as the sluggish blood moved down from her head. Late. It was very late. She had meant to take extra time over her dressing, to apply makeup with extra care. She had hoped to speak privately with Andrea before the others joined them.

Where the hell was that stupid maid?

She groped for the buzzer and jabbed it impatiently. She had just found the light switch when the door burst open. Dazzled, Linda blinked at her maid.

“You’re supposed to knock,” she said angrily. “And why did you let me sleep so long? You know I’m late.”

Anna’s mouth drooped open another inch. She was silent for a moment, as if trying to decide which criticism to answer first.

“But, madam, you’ve told me time and again not to bother you unless you ring. And this time, the bell-it sounded sort of frantic, and I thought maybe you’d hurt yourself or something-”

“Oh, shut up,” Linda said. The very reasonableness of the girl’s defense infuriated her. “Straighten up this mess. Find me something to wear.”

With a murmured “Yes, madam,” Anna picked up the shoes Linda had left in the middle of the floor and carried them to the dressing room.

From where she stood, Linda could see the far wall of the dressing room, which was one huge mirror, polished to shining perfection. Out of its depths, another Anna advanced briskly to meet the one who was entering the room. The identical twin figures were an uncanny sight; but Linda paid no attention to that, or to the expression on the mirrored face, which had relaxed when Anna thought herself no longer under observation. Part of the bedroom was reflected in the mirror, and it was, as she had said, a mess. She had thrown herself down on the bed without turning back the spread; the satin surface was wrinkled and ugly, with a dark spot near the pillow where her mouth had rested. Her gardening clothes, which she had changed before lunch, lay in crumpled heaps on the floor. Beside the bed, as if fallen from a nerveless hand, was an empty bottle.

Linda gaped at it in vague surprise. Had she really finished the whole bottle? Surely this one had been almost full when she took it out of the drawer.

She shoved it aside with her foot, wrinkling her nose at the sour reek of spilled liquor. Her tweed skirt was twisted and her right stocking marred by a run. There were stains on the front of her blouse.

“Run my bath,” she called, tugging at the zipper of the skirt.

Anna appeared in the doorway.

“But, madam, it’s late-”

“Whose fault is that?” Linda asked pettishly. “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll make it a shower then. Get my clothes out. The black culotte thing, stockings, the gold sandals-and hurry up, damn you.”