As Grace had said, Mrs. Johnson and Rose, her daughter, were
dismissed, the house was shut up, the owner gone, the keys in
Edith's possession, and for many days the leaves of crimson and of
gold drifted down upon the walks and lay piled beneath the windows
and upon the marble steps, where they rested undisturbed, save
when the evening wind whirled them in fantastic circles and then
sent them back again to their first lodging place.
Occasionally Edith, on her spirited Bedouin, rode slowly by,
glancing at the grounds and garden, where so many flowers were
blossoming for naught, and then gazing curiously at the latticed
windows looking out toward Collingwood. She knew which ones they
were, though the blinds were closed tightly over them, and she
wondered if the mystery of that room would ever be revealed to
her. Once, as she was riding by, she saw a stranger standing upon
the steps of the front door and pulling vehemently at the silver
knob which brought him no response. Reining Bedouin at the gate
the waited until the gentleman, tired of ringing, came slowly down
the walk, apparently absorbed in some perplexing thought.
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