— 35 —When the funeral procession had started for Norwood Cemetery and the blinds had been pulled up in the house that Martin Rue had left for the last time, Olivia Sacret, without troubling anyone, set off on foot, carrying her small valise, to Minton Street.
She had not expected to find the painter there, yet it was with a pang of disappointment that she entered the mean, empty room.
He had left, among the dirty litter on the table, a note, cautiously worded, informing her that he was “arranging the affair” and had “sent everything ahead” and would “wait on her soon after her return.”
That will be any moment now, reflected Mrs. Sacret, glancing around with distaste. He must have informed himself of the date of the funeral. Oh, to be away!
The place was stripped of all the painter’s p
