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It was a call from Long Island, where Aunt Althea Balbian was summering. The servants had learned of Lilla's whereabouts from the Brassfields. Aunt Althea had fallen seriously ill in the night. Parr showed his downcast eyelids and lantern jaws in the doorway. "A maid is here from madam's house downtown with a steamer trunk and three suitcases."
Lawrence Teck put on his hat, gave Cornelius Rysbroek a blind stare, climbed into a hired car. In doing so he showed his aquiline profile; and Cornelius recalled the moonlit terrace of the Brassfields' country house. "It's he!" The hired car set out for New York; and behind it, all the way, went the blue runabout. She entered her sitting room, locked the door, threw herself upon the couch.
The limousine stopped before the Russian's door as Lilla, disgusted by this anticlimax, replied: "You've repeated your old prophecy because it has haunted my mind ever since you made it that night at the Brassfields'. You've merely gotten back from me the impression that you stamped on my consciousness then." "Then that is something new. These perceptions of mine have never referred to the past.
But just in time she stilled that tremulous smile, and averted that dizzy look in the depths of which lurked a fatal sweetness. Then, when life seemed to her unbearably monotonous, she went to a week-end party at the Brassfields' house in the country. The Brassfields' country house was copied from an historic French chateau.
"Have you telephoned to the Brassfields?" "Yes," she said, with a wan smile, "and caused quite a sensation." A small, wiry, middle-aged man, with an honest, lantern-jawed face, entered the living room bearing a breakfast tray. After one glance, keeping his eyes cast down, he bowed respectfully. He was Parr, Lawrence Teck's valet in America and right-hand man in Africa.
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