Mme. Storey drove her own car up to Newport. According to instructions,we left it standing at the front door of the Van Tassel mansion, andmade our way by a path around to the rear. This was to avoid coming incontact with the house servants.In the darkness under the side windows our way was suddenly blocked byan armed guard. The unexpectedness of his appearance almost fetched ascream out of me. In a husky whisper he demanded to know our business.Mme. Storey gave him the password that had been furnishedus--"Redwood"--and he drew back. I had the feeling that other men werewatching us from the shadows of the shrubbery. Who would want to berich, I thought, if you had to live in a state of siege like this.At the back of the mansion, looking over the cliffs toward the sea,there was a wide outdoors room that would have been called a porch inany ordinary house, but at the Van Tassels', we learned, it wasdignified with the name of terrace. It was glassed in all around for badweather, and though now the June night was warm and sweet smelling, allthe sliding panels were closed. Here Mr. and Mrs. Van Tassel hadarranged to be waiting for us.I glanced with strong curiosity at the bearers of so famous a name.Neither was very impressive.Howard Van Tassel was an old man suffering from some form of hearttrouble that forced him to keep his mouth always hanging open and tobreathe with difficulty. You were always uneasy in his presence becausehe seemed likely to have a stroke at any moment. His wife had been abeauty. Her faded hair was tricked out in the puffs and whorls and kinksthat went out of fashion years ago, and her faded cheeks were brightwith rouge. They showed little of the dignity you would expect frompeople of their position.