They had stopped before a square, two-storied brick house, with an equally square wooden porch supported by two plain, rigid wooden columns, and a hollow sweep of dull concavity above the door, evidently of the same architectural order as the church. There was no corner or projection to break the force of the wind that swept its smooth glacial surface; there was no indication of light or warmth behind its six closed windows. “There seems to be nobody at home,” said Demorest, briefly. “Come along with me to the hotel.” “Joan sits in the back parlor, Sundays,” explained the husband. “Shall I drive round to the barn and leave the horse and buggy there while you go in?” continued Demorest, good-humoredly, pointing to the stable gate at the side. “No, thank you,” returned Blandford, “it's locked, and I'll have to open it from the other side after I go in. The horse will stand until then. I think I'll have to say good-night, now,” he added, with a sudden half-ashamed consciousness of the forbidding aspect of the house, and his own inhospitality. “I'm sorry I can't ask you in--but you understand why.” “All right,” returned Demorest, stoutly, turning up his coat-collar, and unfurling his umbrella. “The hotel is only four blocks away--you'll find me there to-morrow morning if you call. But mind you tell your wife just what I told you--and no meandering of your own--you hear! She'll strike out some idea with her woman's wits, you bet. Good-night, old man!” He reached out his hand, pressed Blandford's strongly and potentially, and strode down the street.