Five minutes later, as Harris, installed _en maître_ over the chafing dish, was giving directions, spoon in the air, Mrs. Kildair came into the room like a lengthening shadow. Her entrance had been made with scarcely a perceptible sound, and yet each guest was aware of it at the same moment, with a little nervous start. “Heavens, dear lady,” exclaimed Flanders, “you come in on us like a Greek tragedy! What is it you have for us, a surprise?” As he spoke she turned her swift glance on him, drawing her forehead together until the eyebrows ran in a straight line. “I have something to say to you,” she said in a sharp, businesslike manner, watching the company with penetrating eagerness. There was no mistaking the seriousness of her voice. Mr. Harris extinguished the oil lamp, covering the chafing dish clumsily with a discordant, disagreeable sound. Mrs. Cheever and Mrs. Enos Jackson swung about abruptly, Maude Lille rose a little from her seat, while the men imitated these movements of expectancy with a clumsy shuffling of the feet. “Mr. Enos Jackson?” “Yes, Mrs. Kildair.” “Kindly do as I ask you.” “Certainly.” She had spoken his name with a peremptory positiveness that was almost an accusation. He rose calmly, raising his eyebrows a little in surprise. “Go to the door,” she continued, shifting her glance from him to the others. “Are you there? Lock it. Bring me the key.” He executed the order without bungling, and returning stood before her, tendering the key. “You’ve locked it?” she said, making the words an excuse to bury her glance in his. “As you wished me to.” “Thanks.” She took from him the key and, shifting slightly, likewise locked the door into her bedroom through which she had come. Then transferring the keys to her left hand, seemingly unaware of Jackson, who still awaited her further commands, her eyes studied a moment the possibilities of the apartment. “Mr. Cheever?” she said in a low voice. “Yes, Mrs. Kildair.” “Blow out all the candles except the candelabrum on the table.” “Put out the lights, Mrs. Kildair?” “At once.” Mr. Cheever, in rising, met the glance of his wife, and the look of questioning and wonder that passed did not escape the hostess. “But, my dear Mrs. Kildair,” said Mrs. Jackson with a little nervous catch of her breath, “what is it? I’m getting terribly worked up! My nerves—” “Miss Lille?” said the voice of command. “Yes.” The journalist, calmer than the rest, had watched the proceedings without surprise, as though fore-warned by professional instinct that something of importance was about to take place. Now she rose quietly with an almost stealthy motion.