As she turned from the taxi some oddly repetitive experience caught at her; a car was just turning the corner ahead of the taxi and it was going slowly, as if it were in second gear. As if, then, it had been either idling or stopped at the Whipple drive. But no one would be calling just then. Then she knew why it had seemed a familiar and repeated experience: twice before that night she had been aware of a car driving slowly along the street. That was all. She went into the house, grateful for the solidity of the door and the indescribably familiar fragrances of the old house. No one was in the hall, though lights were burning, and she saw no one on the stairs. No one in the upper hall either, though as she opened her own door some instinct compelled her to turn quickly to look again down the hall. It was, however, dimly lighted and stretched away into quiet, apparently empty shadows, and if it had been a sound that caught her attention it was not repeated. Her room was like a haven and it was blessedly warm, yet long after she had gone to bed she was still cold and shaken and confused.
