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An hour and forty minutes later, Hartley stepped off the train at Floralhurst. He walked quickly to his beautiful two-story cottage with its wide lawn.

A woman with long black hair and a white summer dress came running to meet him. She hugged him tightly.

When they entered the hall, she said:
“Mamma is here. The car will come for her in half an hour. She came to dinner—but there’s no dinner.”

“I must tell you something,” Hartley said seriously. “I wanted to say it gently, but since your mother is here, we may as well say it now.”

He bent down and whispered in her ear.

His wife screamed. Her mother ran into the hall. Then his wife screamed again—but this time with joy.

“Oh, mamma!” she cried happily. “What do you think? Vivienne is coming to cook for us! She is the same girl who worked for the Montgomerys for a whole year. And now, Billy dear,” she added sweetly, “you must go right down to the kitchen and send Hloise away. She has been drunk all day again.”

Hartley rang the “McComus” bell. The door opened slowly, as if it wasn’t sure whether to trust him. He climbed the stairs. On the fourth floor he found Vivienne standing in the doorway. She smiled brightly and invited him inside.

Vivienne was twenty-one. She had golden-red hair, blue eyes, and a clear white face. She looked both strong and graceful. Her simple clothes made her appear like both a country girl and a lady.

“Vivienne,” said Hartley, “you didn’t answer my letter. I searched for a week to find you. Why did you keep me waiting?”

The girl looked out the window.
“Mr. Hartley, I don’t know what to say. I know life with you would have many advantages. Sometimes I think I would be happy. But other times, I am not sure. I am a city girl, and I am afraid of a quiet life in the suburbs.”

“My dear,” Hartley said with passion, “you will have everything you want. We can go to the city for theatres, shopping, and visits whenever you like. You can trust me.”

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “I know you are kind. Any girl will be lucky to marry you.”

Hartley’s heart filled with hope.
“Promise me, Vivienne. Come with me. You will never regret it.”

Vivienne sighed and looked at her hands. Hartley suddenly became suspicious.
“Tell me,” he asked, “is there someone else?”

Her face turned red.
“Yes, there is another man. But I have promised him nothing.”

“His name?” asked Hartley sharply.

“Townsend.”

Hartley’s jaw tightened.
“Rafford Townsend! After all I’ve done for him!”

Vivienne leaned out the window.
“His car has stopped below. He is coming now for my answer. Oh, I don’t know what to do!”

The doorbell rang. Hartley said firmly:
“Stay here. I will meet him.”

Townsend came up the stairs quickly. He stopped when he saw Hartley.

“Go back,” said Hartley, pointing to the stairs.

Townsend tried to smile. “What’s the problem, old friend?”

“Go back,” repeated Hartley. “The kill is mine.”

Townsend pretended he had come to see a plumber, but finally he left, angry.

Hartley returned to Vivienne.
“I must have you,” he said. “No more delays.”

“When do you want me?” she asked.

“Now. As soon as you are ready.”

She looked at him seriously.
“Do you think I would come while Hloise is still in your house?”

Hartley felt shocked.
“She shall go,” he said. “I will send her away tonight.”

“Then,” said Vivienne, “my answer is yes.”

On the glass door of Room 962 were the words: “Robbins & Hartley, Brokers.”
It was after five o’clock. The clerks had already gone home. Cleaning women walked through the tall office building. Hot air came through the open windows, mixed with city smells.

Robbins was about fifty. He liked theatre shows and hotel bars. He joked with his young partner.

“Tonight will be very hot,” Robbins said. “You people who live outside the city will be lucky. You will have fresh air, insects singing, and cold drinks on the porch.”

Hartley, twenty-nine, serious and nervous, only sighed.
“Yes,” he said, “it is always cooler in Floralhurst at night.”

At that moment a man entered. He looked mysterious. He walked straight to Hartley.
“I found her address,” the man whispered dramatically.

Hartley frowned at him to be quiet. Robbins, meanwhile, put on his hat and cane and left for his evening entertainment.

“Here is the address,” the man said normally now, giving Hartley a piece of paper. It said:

“Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East – Street, care of Mrs. McComus.”

“She moved there last week,” said the man. “Do you want me to follow her? I can do a fine job—only $7 a day plus expenses.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Hartley interrupted. “I only wanted the address. How much do I owe you?”

“Ten dollars,” said the detective.

Hartley paid him and left the office. He took a Broadway streetcar, then another car that brought him to an old part of town. After walking a few blocks, he arrived at a new apartment house called The Vallambrosa. Its balconies and fire escapes were full of laundry, children, and even plants trying to survive the summer heat