That was why her face held its ashen pallor, her eyes their hunted fear. But there was no relief to be found at the phone--a dead stillness, not even the whispering hum of the wires met her ear. "It's broken," she said to herself. "Or the girls have got frightened and gone." Out on the lawn she paused a moment beside Aunt Ellen. "Something's the matter with the wires. I'm going to the drugstore on Sutter Street." "But what for--what for?" Aunt Ellen wanted to know. "Telephoning when the city's been smitten by the hand of God!" "It's Chrystie," she called over her shoulder as she went out of the gate. "I want to find out how she is." "Chrystie's at San Mateo," Aunt Ellen quavered. "She's all right there. She's with the Barlows." The man in the doorway of his wrecked drugstore laughed sardonically at her request to use the phone. All the wires were broken--you couldn't telephone any more than you could fly. Everything was out of commission. You couldn't telegraph--you couldn't get a message carried--except by hand--not if you were the president of the country. Even the car lines were stopped--not a spark of power. The whole machinery of the city was at a standstill. "Like the clock there," he said, and pointed to the face of the timepiece hanging shattered from the wall, its hands marking a quarter to five. She went back, jostling through the people. Bold ones were going into the houses to put on their clothes, timid ones commissioning them to throw theirs out of the windows. She saw Chinese servants, unshaken from their routine, methodically clearing fallen bricks and cornices from front steps to which they purported, giving the matutinal sweeping. She skirted a fallen stone terrace, its copings strewn afar, the garden above a landslide across the pavement. People spoke to her, some she knew, others who were strangers. She hardly answered them, hurrying on. Dazed, poor girl, they said, and small wonder. If Chrystie was in the city she would certainly come home. It was the natural, the only, thing for her to do. But it would be impossible to sit there waiting for her, doing nothing. The best course for Lorry was to go out and look for her--go to all those places where she might be. Aunt Ellen would be at the house, waiting, if she came, to tell her they were all right. And Lorry would return at intervals to see if she had come. If by midday she hadn't, then there was Mark Burrage. She would go to him. But Chrystie would be back before then--she might be there even now. Her rapid walk broke into a run and presently she was flying past the garden fence, sending her glance ahead under the trees. No--Aunt Ellen was alone, looking as if she was participating in a solitary picnic. In front of her stood a small table covered with a white cloth and set with glass and silver. She was inspecting it closely as if trying to find flaws in its arrangement and as Lorry came panting up the steps, said with a relieved air: