Under the direction of his friend, Demorest, who still retained possession of the reins, drove briskly down a side street of more pretentious dwellings, where Blandford lived.

One or two wayfarers looked up.
"Not so fast, Dick." "Why?
I want to bring you up to your door in style." "Yes--but--it's Sunday.

That's my house, the corner one." They had stopped before a square, two-storied brick house, with an equally square wooden porch supported by two plain, rigid wooden columns, and a hollow sweep of dull concavity above the door, evidently of the same architectural order as the church.

There was no corner or projection to break the force of the wind that swept its smooth glacial surface; there was no indication of light or warmth behind its six closed windows.
"There seems to be nobody at home," said Demorest, briefly.

"Come along with me to the hotel." "Joan sits in the back parlor, Sundays," explained the husband.
"Shall I drive round to the barn and leave the horse and buggy there while you go in ?" continued Demorest, good-humoredly, pointing to the stable gate at the side.
"No, thank you," returned Blandford, "it's locked, and I'll have to open it from the other side after I go in.