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It was early afternoon, sunlit and pleasantly cold.
The first rush of panic and the impulse to dash after stayed, she forced
herself down into a chair, striving with the utmost difficulty for
coherence of procedure.
Where in the half hour of her absence had her mother gone? Matinee?
Impossible! Walking? Hardly possible. Upon inquiry in the kitchen,
neither of the maids had seen nor heard her depart. Motoring? With a
hand that trembled in spite of itself Alma telephoned the garage. Car
and chauffeur were there. Incredible as it seemed, Alma, upon more than
one occasion, had lately been obliged to remind her mother that she
was becoming careless of the old pointedly rosy hands. Manicurist? She
telephoned the Bon Ton Beauty Parlors. No. Where? O God! Where? Which
way to begin? That was what troubled her most. To start right so as not
to lose a precious second.
Suddenly, and for no particular reason, Alma began a hurried search
through her mother's dresser drawers of lovely personal appointments.


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