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expected it to be on order when one thought of Christmas parties in the mountains. But there was something serious and sinister in the look of the sky in spite of the flakes that Demeter did not like. Such a storm was only interesting when there was a large party, a wide open fire, plenty of music to drown the sound of a possible wind and banish the thought of cold and suffering and peril outside.
    Demeter had arrived early, contrary to her usual custom, partly for her own ulterior motives and partly because she had a curious foreboding that if she didn’t go early she wouldn’t be able to get there at all. There were so many reservations in the voices of servants around the holidays, and her chauffeur was no exception to this rule. He wanted to spend Christmas with his family. It was most annoying. If a man was a chauffeur he ought not to expect to spend Christmas with his family, ought he? He was a chauffeur, not a man, to the mind of Demeter Cass, for Demeter Cass was a self-centered creature, with very few thoughts for others. But because she saw a certain look in her chauffeur’s eyes, and a familiar set of his jaws that told her he would go anyway, whether she allowed it or not, she gave in and started on her way early, that he might take her to her destination and then get to his as best he could, returning for her after the holiday.
    She had tried to induce Alan Monteith to accompany her. She had done her best for a whole evening to convince him that she needed his protection on the journey, but he had told her that he was not sure that he could get away to go at all yet, as he had an important law matter that must be arranged before he could leave the city. So she had gone on her way alone, through the increasing storm, with her grim chauffeur silently driving in the front seat.
    It was not that she could not have had other company, for Demeter Cass was not usually begging for company, but it did not suit her plans just now to have anyone hindering her movements. She had planned out a campaign for this holiday and wanted to be sure just how the land lay.
    So she arrived at The Ledge three hours ahead of even her host and hostess, the Wyndringhams, and had the house and its servants to herself, incidentally getting her pick of the guest rooms, and establishing herself so thoroughly that any contrary plans of her hostess would be futile.
    Restlessly she roved from room to room. She hunted up the butler and narrowing her green eyes keenly, asked him, “Has the count arrived yet?” When he replied in the negative she commanded, “Let me know as soon as he comes!” Finally she went to the telephone, a frequent employee of hers.
    First she called up Alan Monteith’s apartment, and after a long wait with prolonged ringing was answered by the janitor of the building.
    No, Mr. Monteith was not there—No, he was not coming back until after Christmas—No, he had not left any address where he could be called—Yes, he had said he was leaving the city—No, he did not know how far—The party had better call the office. His partner might be there.
    Demeter Cass called Alan Monteith’s city office and was answered by Alan Monteith’s secretary, who had come in to attend to some mail that must go out that morning. Yes, she said, Mr. Monteith had been in the office that morning early, but had gone and would not return until after Christmas. “Who is calling, please?”
    Demeter Cass was clever. The secretary might or might not know her voice, but she gave her no satisfaction.
    “Just a friend of Mr. Monteith who is a fellow guest where he is going,” she answered in honeyed tones. “I reached here an hour ago and discovered that I had left a small leather case at home that I very much need, and I was wondering if Mr. Monteith would be so good as to stop at my home and bring it for me, in case he was not started yet. I understood that he was not leaving the city till somewhere near noon.”
    She understood nothing of