Amanda Quick: Wait Until Midnight

When he passed the gloom-filled parlor, he glimpsed a desk amid the assortment of heavy furniture.

He went into the room, crossed the red and black patterned carpet and quickly opened the various drawers. None contained the diary but casually tucked into a cubby-hole was a sheet of paper with a list of names and addresses. Yesterday's date and the words nine o'clock had been noted at the top of the page.

He studied the list for a few seconds before it came to him that he was most likely looking at the names of the sitters who had attended Elizabeth Delmont's last séance.

One of the names was heavily underlined. There was something vaguely familiar about it but he could not quite place it. That in and of itself was disturbing. He possessed an excellent memory. Such a talent had been necessary in the old days when he had sold gossip and other peoples' secrets to earn a living.

He moved in far more elevated circles now, but some things had not changed. He never forgot a name or a face or a rumor. Information gave him power in the glittering, treacherous jungles of Society, just as it had helped him survive on the streets of London in his youth.

He concentrated on the underlined name, trying to summon up an image or an impression or even a trivial bit of gossip. A fleeting memory surfaced. He was almost certain that Julia or Wilson had mentioned the name in passing. Something to do with a piece in the newspaper. Not the Times; he was certain of that. He read it faithfully every day.

The reference must have come from one of the less respectable papers, he decided. The sort that relied on lurid accounts of sensations—violent crimes and illicit sexual scandals—to sell copies.

He had paid no attention at the time because the person mentioned did not inhabit the relatively small world of wealth and privilege that was his hunting ground.

A trickle of ghostly electricity stirred the hair on the back of his neck.

Mrs. Fordyce. 22 Corley Lane.

This time he would not forget the name.

The mysterious gentleman wore an invisible cloak fashioned of intrigue and shadow. There was something quite thrilling, even a bit unnerving, about the sight of him looming there in the doorway of her small study, Caroline Fordyce thought. Anticipation, curiosity and a strange awareness sparkled through her.

It was barely nine o'clock in the morning and she had never met Adam Grove before in her life. A lady endowed with a proper respect for the proprieties would never have permitted him to be admitted into the house; certainly not at such an early hour, she thought. But a too-careful observance of the proprieties made for a very unexciting existence. She ought to know; she had been excruciatingly cautious about the proprieties for the past three years, and things had been wretchedly dull indeed here at Number 22 Corley Lane.

"Please sit down, Mr. Grove." Caroline rose from her desk and went to stand in front of the garden window, putting the warm light of the sunny morning behind her so that it illuminated her visitor more clearly. "My housekeeper informs me that you have called to discuss a matter that you seem to believe is of grave importance to both of us"

Indeed, it was the phrase grave importance that had quickened her interest and induced her to instruct Mrs. Plummer to show Grove into her study. Such deliciously ominous-sounding words, she thought happily. The phrase grave importance practically vibrated with the promise of a Startling Incident.

People never called here at 22 Corley Lane with news of grave importance, not unless one counted the fishmonger's young daughter, who had quietly advised Mrs. Plummer to take a good whiff of the salmon before purchasing it last week, as it had gone off. The girl had explained that her father had treated the fish with some substance de-signed to conceal the odor of decay. She had confided that she had not wanted to be responsible for poisoning the entire household. "As if I'd have been taken in by that sort of sharp practice," Mrs. Plummer had announced, disdain dripping from every word.

Such was the nature of gravely important news in this household.

In all probability, this morning's surprise visitor would soon discover that he had got the wrong address and would take his news of grave importance elsewhere, Caroline thought. But in the meantime, she intended to take full ad-vantage of the diverting interruption to her routine.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mrs. Fordyce," Adam Grove said from the doorway.

Oh, my goodness, she thought. His voice was wonderfully compelling, low and deep and charged with cool masculine assurance. Another whisper of awareness shot through her. But this time it induced a shiver of caution. She sensed that Grove was a man endowed with a formidable will; the sort who was accustomed to achieving his objectives, perhaps at any cost.

Inspiration struck with the force of summer lightning. Adam Grove was exactly what she had been searching for all morning. He was perfect.

She glanced at the paper and pen on her desk, wondering if she dared take notes. She did not want to alarm Grove or send him packing too quickly. He would discover his mistake soon enough and take himself off to the correct address. Meanwhile, this was a golden opportunity and she did not intend to waste it. Perhaps he would not notice if she merely jotted down a few observations now and again during their conversation.

"Naturally, I felt obliged to hear your news of grave importance, sir," she said, slipping as casually as possible back to the chair behind her desk.

"I would not have called at this hour had not the subject of my visit been of the utmost urgency," he assured her. She sat down, reached for her pen and gave him an encouraging smile. "Won't you please be seated, sir?" "Thank you"

She watched him cross the small room to take the chair she had indicated. When he moved into the light, she got a close look at his expensively cut coat and trousers. Her fingers clenched around the pen.

Be careful, she thought. This man was from the Other World; not the unseen realm that was the source of such interest among psychical researchers, but the far more dangerous sphere of Society. It was a place where the wealthy and the powerful made all the rules and roderoughshod over those they viewed as their social inferiors. Three years ago, she had had a disastrous experience with a man who moved in privileged circles. It had taught her a lesson she did not plan to forget, regardless of how mysterious and intriguing Mr. Adam Grove proved to be.

She studied him, trying not to be obvious about it. Grove was lean and well-made in a manly fashion. His movements were economical and restrained, yet endowed with a supple grace. One got the impression that he could react swiftly to a threat of danger but that both his strength and will were under complete control. He charged the atmosphere of the room with energy and a masculine vitality that was impossible to ignore.

No doubt about it; he was a perfect model for the character of Edmund Drake.

She quickly wrote Charges atmosphere with masc. vitality in what she hoped was an offhand manner, as though she were merely making a shopping list.

She decided that she should also make some notes regarding his style of dress. It was at once elegant and distinguished and yet quite apart from the current masculine fashion, which favored such eye-dazzling combinations as polka-dot shirts and plaid trousers.

Grove was attired from head to foot in tones of deepest, darkest gray. His shirt was the singular exception. It was a pristine white. The collar was turned back in the new "gates ajar" mode that appeared to be infinitely more comfortable than the usual high-standing styles. His tie was knotted in a precise four-in-hand.