Her mother’s nurse and companion, a Mrs. Foss, delivered to Annabel on the telephone only the bare fact itself—that there had been a crash in which Echo was killed. An hour later, when the first terrible waves of anguish and consternation had subsided in the Williams household, Annabel and Clinton stood by as Ralph put in a call to Toledo.

He learned from Mrs. Foss, in this second conversation, that Echo’s automobile had left the highway, just forty-some miles south of Toledo, that it had crashed into the brick chimney of a private residence, that death had come during the first instant after the impact. The accident had taken place during a heavy storm, but its exact cause was not known.

Ralph suggested that Annabel’s presence in Toledo might be helpful to the girl’s mother. Mrs. Foss agreed. She said that the doctor had given Bernice O’Brien an injection to induce sleep; but that, in her opinion, the comfort to the poor woman, if Annabel could be at her side when she awakened, might be invaluable.

Ralph offered to drive her to Toledo in the family car, but Annabel held that it was the duty of Berry-berry to accompany her. Besides, she insisted, Ralph should remain in bed.

Annabel refused to believe that Berry-berry would stay away for long. Though Clinton had offered no information at all concerning the events of the night, Annabel had deduced, from the absence of both of the lovers, that some quarrel had taken place between them. But now, because the girl had died as an indirect result of it, Annabel could not permit herself to imagine that this quarrel had been of any real importance to either of them.

Therefore, while she prepared for her trip, Ralph, at her insistence, made several attempts to reach Berry-berry by telephone at his establishment in Apple Mountain. But as these attempts failed, it was decided that Clinton would drive his mother to Toledo; and in the evening he would return, alone, to Seminary Street. Then, in two or three days, he and his father—and Berry-berry, if they could find him—would drive up together for the funeral.

By midafternoon Clinton and Annabel had set out on their trip. The sun was shining. The sky was blue. There were the sounds of Lake Erie’s strong winds, which made the earth seem flagrantly alive. But the journey was otherwise a quiet one. Annabel occasionally gave voice to her inability to believe that this dreadful thing had actually taken place, but from time to time, when the fact itself momentarily overwhelmed her disbelief, she wept silently into her handkerchief.

There were, however, in Clinton, no such fluctuations: no disbelief and no sorrow. He was waiting. His mind and his heart and his spirit were waiting. He knew, though he could not have put the knowledge into words, that there was still some event that had yet to take place. And when it had—whatever it was—his feelings would then take some outward form. Meanwhile, it did not even occur to him to question his lack of emotion. Instead, he drove through the afternoon and across northern Ohio, experiencing only a kind of elation that was almost pleasurable. And he waited.