Mary Roberts Rinehart 
The Yellow Room 

As she sat in the train that June morning Carol Spencer did not look like a young woman facing anything unusual. She looked merely like an attractive and highly finished product of New York City, who was about to park her mother with her elder sister in Newport for a week or two, and who after said parking would then proceed to Maine, there to open a house which she had never wanted to see again. Now she was trying to relax. Mrs. Spencer in the next chair was lying back with her eyes closed, as though exhausted.