ys Fleming, obviously detached from
the bustle of pre-departure preparations, were standing to one side,
talking. And Rand had finished helping Adam Trehearne pack the last
container of his share of the Fleming collection into his car.

"I see Colin's about ready to leave, and I'm in his way," Trehearne said.
He extended his hand to Rand. "No need hashing over how we all feel about
this. If it hadn't been for you, that offer of Kendall's would have had
us stopped as dead as Rivers's had. Five hundred dollars deader, in
fact."

Stephen Gresham, carrying a package-filled orange crate, joined him,
setting down his burden. His wife and daughter, with another crate
between them, halted beside him.

"Haven't you got your stuff packed yet, Jeff?" Gresham asked.

"Jeff's been helping everybody else," Irene Gresham burst out. "Come on,
everybody; let's go help Jeff pack! You're going to have dinner with us,
aren't you, Jeff?"

"Oh, sorry. I have some more details to clear up; I'm having dinner here,
with Mrs. Fleming," Rand regretted. "I'll pack my stuff later."

Mrs. Jarrett, Mrs. Trehearne, and Gladys came over; one by one the rest
of the group converged upon them. Then, when the good-by's had been said,
and the promises to meet again had been given, they parted. One by one
the cars moved slowly down the driveway to the road. Only Gladys and
Rand, standing at the foot of the front steps, and the gingerbread-brown
butler were left.

"My, my; that was some party!" the Negro chuckled, gathering up three
empty pasteboard cartons and telescoping them together. "Dinner'll be
ready in about half an hour, Mrs. Fleming. Shall I go mix the cocktails
now?"

"Yes; do that, Reuben. In the drawing-room." She watched the servant
carry the discarded containers around the house, then turned to Rand.
"You know, not the least of your capabilities is your knack of finding
servant-replacements on short notice," she told him.

"My general factotum, Buck Pendexter, is a prominent personage in New
Belfast colored lodge circles," Rand said. "When your cook and maid quit
on you, the day of the blow-up, all I had to do was phone him, and he did
the rest." He got out his cigarettes, offered them, and snapped his
lighter. "I notice you're having cocktails in the drawing-room now."

"Yes. I suppose, in time, I'll stop imagining I see Fred Dunmore's blood
on the library floor. I got used to what had happened in the gunroom last
December. Shall w