“I told you months ago, Vera, that you hadn’t any left,” interrupted Dorothy. “Perhaps you can find an old one, even if it’s black-edged, in my desk--” Dorothy shook her head violently. “I can’t; I looked there at Christmas and could not find any kind of a card. Coming right away, Murray,” as the footman appeared. “Do you wish me to order some cards struck off?” “Yes,” called Vera. “Pay for it with the money I gave you yesterday.” And Dorothy disappeared with Murray in attendance. Vera waited until convinced that the limousine must have driven off, then, tossing the blue cape with its small picturesque red cross about her shoulders, she opened the side door and, skirting the back of the house, walked swiftly past the garage. Passing down a lane she crossed a field and went up a path leading to the “side hill,” as that part of the Porter plantation was called. The cold and wind of the preceding day had abated, and Vera took deep breaths of the delicious, invigorating air, as, deserting the path, she made her way among the trees and dead underbrush to a clearing high up on the hillside, which, except from above, was invisible from the path she had quitted some moments before. A huge mica rock, known locally as Diamond Rock, occupied most of the clearing, and Vera exclaimed with pleasure as she caught the rainbow effects produced by the winter sunshine on its surface. Stepping in clefts in the rock she slowly mounted to the top and made herself comfortable. Once settled on her perch, she turned her attention to the panoramic view of the Potomac River far below her and the surrounding countryside. But she barely saw the landscape, her thoughts being concentrated upon the Porter limousine and its occupants. Too late she regretted that she had not accompanied Millicent and Dorothy to Washington. But when her sister had asked her, a feeling of abhorrence had swept over her at the prospect of being inclosed in a small space and listening to their chatter. Her desire to be out in the open and by herself had gained the mastery; for an hour at least she could wrestle with her problems and decide on the future. She resolutely determined to put all thought of the past out of her mind, but it was a greater task than she had imagined--the past would not bury its dead! Great drops of perspiration beaded her forehead as incidents of the past three days rose before her: her first glimpse of Bruce Brainard in bed Monday night--the tragedy--the inquest--the detectives-- Vera plucked at her handkerchief and pressed it against her forehead and her cheeks, rubbing the latter vigorously. She must not think of the past; the future concerned her more intimately.