"Where the house is I haven’t the least idea. But I can’t stay here. I _must_ find a place to sleep. Perhaps—just perhaps—somebody is up, after all."
She returned to the end of the wharf and surveyed her six trunks. "They’ll do until morning," said Miss Chalmers as she picked up her grip and started in search of the Witherbee house.
There was a gravel path, beginning where the wharf met the shore, and Miss Chalmers followed it. Even in the gloom of the trees this was not difficult, for the gravel was white, and lay before her like a ghostly streak. Besides, it crunched under the twenty-dollar shoes.
Miss Chalmers was displeased with herself. She felt foolish. Something had gone wrong with her poise; something seemed to have been subtracted from the considerable sum of her dignity. The world was not playing flunky as usual. Her old austerity was there, perhaps, but it lacked confidence and authority.
The path forked, and Miss Chalmers paused to consider. The house was still invisible.
"Why does a strange path always fork when one is alone and in a hurry, and particularly at night?" asked Miss Chalmers aloud.
There was no answer; so, after an instant of indecision, she took the fork that led to the right. Naturally it was the wrong fork. It simply had to be, under the circumstances. It brought her back to the shore of the island, where a summer pavilion was erected on a rocky point.
She retraced her steps back to the fork and took the left branch of the gravel path. In not more than two minutes it guided her to the edge of a lawn. Beyond this she could see the house—a large, solid, black mass against a background of trees.
"Not a single light!" she exclaimed impatiently. "It’s positively—_uncouth_!"
She crossed the lawn and paused again at the foot of a flight of steps that led to a broad piazza.
"It’s almost as if the place was closed," she commented as her glance roved upward toward the windows. "But of course it’s not. Oh, well!"
She ascended the steps, crossed the piazza, and found a push-button in the framing of a closed door. She pushed and waited—but not long; she was too impatient for dalliance.
Several times she pushed the button in rapid succession, holding her thumb upon it for extended periods. Nobody came to the door, which angered her anew. Then she realized that she herself could hear no ringing of a bell.