ther."

They went down the walk together, Doak and Martha, and he had
forgotten June and the Department and all the girls who would be out,
looking, tonight in Washington.

She walked easily at his side, poised and quiet.

He said, "Do you work in town?"

She nodded. "For an attorney. I was going to law school myself until
Dad died."

"Oh," he said.

He wondered at his lack of words, and the strange sense of--almost of
inferiority glimmering in him. She hadn't said anything or done
anything to place him at a disadvantage but he knew this was no lass
for the casual pitch.

They came to the crest of the hill and saw the dying sun low in the
west. The quiet was almost absolute. About a hundred yards on the
other side of the ridge was a road leading off to the south. On the
right side of this road was the big house with the high stone fence.

Doak said quietly, "There's a few sentences that have been bothering
me all day. I wonder if you'd recognize them. They're, 'Studious, let
me sit and hold high converse with the mighty dead.' One of the Scotch
poets probably."

"Thomson," she said, "from his _Seasons_." She looked straight ahead.

"I'm not sure I understand exactly what he meant," Doak said.

"He meant--reading." She turned to look at him. "This is Senator
Arnold's house, Mr. Parker. You might ask him what Thomson meant."

Her smile was brief and cool. She walked on.

Behind the fence, the dogs started to bark. In the huge gatepost was a
pair of paneled doors about three feet high, the lower edges about
four feet from the ground. A sign read, _Visitors, kindly use this
phone_.

Doak opened the double doors and lifted the phone. As he did so a
scanning light went on in the weatherproof niche. Someone said, "Yes?"

"Officer Parker of Security. I believe I'm expected."

"One moment, sir."

Silence, except for the sniffing dogs. And then the sniffing stopped
and he heard the pad of their feet, as they raced for the house and
the voice in the phone said, "The gates will be open soon, Mr.
Parker."

They opened in less than a minute. At the far end of the gravel drive
a turreted monstrosity loomed, a weathered wooden structure that had
undoubtedly once been white.

It was now as ashen as the face of Senator Arnold, bleak against the
skyline, set back on a dandelion-covered lawn. Behind the wrought-iron
fence, to the right of the house, the dogs watched him approach.

They were German Boxers, formida