She began to have distinctly uncomfortable thoughts about her visit to the Flints'. But the more uncomfortable her thoughts became, the more reason she brought to bear for conquering them. Surely one was not to be persuaded into a panic by any such person as Mrs. Richards! And by the time the brakeman announced the train's approach to Yolanda, Claire had recovered her common sense. What of it if Mrs. Flint had gone to town? There must be other women in the household--at least a maid. It was absurd! The train stopped and Claire got off. Flint's car was waiting, and Jerry Donovan, the chauffeur, stood with a dripping umbrella almost at Claire's elbow as she hopped upon the platform. As they swished through the inky blackness, Claire said to Jerry, with as inconsequential an air as she could muster: "I thought I saw Mrs. Flint get off the boat in town. But I guess I was mistaken. She wouldn't be leaving Mr. Flint alone ... when he's ill." "Ill?" Jerry chuckled. "Well, he ain't dead by a long shot. Just a case of sniffles, and a good excuse for hitting the booze. He's in prime condition, I can tell you." Claire had never seen Flint in "prime condition," but she had it from Nellie Whitehead that there were moments when the gentleman in question could "go some," to use her predecessor's precise terms. "About twice a year," Nellie had once confided to Claire, "the old boy starts in to cure a cold. I helped him cure one ... but _never_ again!" Jerry's observations aroused fresh anxiety, but they did not settle the issue for Claire. She felt that she could not turn back at the eleventh hour. There was nothing else for her to do but go through with the game. Yet she still hoped for the best. "_Did_ Mrs. Flint go to town to-day?" she finally asked, point-blank. "Sure thing," said Jerry, swinging the car past the Flint gateway. Claire refused to be totally lacking in faith. "There must be a maid," flashed through her mind, as Jerry stopped the car and swung down to help her out.