Lost Man’s Lane · Book I · Chapter 2 (2/2)

“A Mr. Trohm. You will remember that it was through his exertions the services of the New York police were secured. His place there is one of the most interesting in town, and he does not wish to be forced to leave it, but he will be obliged to do so if the road is not soon relieved of its bad name; and so will Deacon Spear. The very children shun the road now. I do not know of a lonelier place.”

“I see a little mark made here on the verge of the woods. What does that mean?”

“That stands for a hut⁠—it can hardly be called a cottage⁠—where a poor old woman lives called Mother Jane. She is a harmless imbecile, against whom no one has ever directed a suspicion. You may take your finger off that mark, Miss Butterworth.”

I did so, but I did not forget that it stood very near the footpath branching off to the station.

“You entered this hut as well as the big houses?” I intimated.

“And found,” was his answer, “four walls; nothing more.”

I let my finger travel along the footpath I have just mentioned.

“Steep,” was his comment. “Up, up, all the way, but no precipices. Nothing but pine woods on either side, thickly carpeted with needles.”

My finger came back and stopped at the house marked M.

“Why is a letter affixed to this spot?” I asked.

“Because it stands at the head of the lane. Anyone sitting at the window L can see whoever enters or leaves the lane at this end. And someone is always sitting there. The house contains two crippled children, a boy and a girl. One of them is always in that window.”

“I see,” said I. Then abruptly: “What do you think of Deacon Spear?”

“Oh, he’s a well-meaning man, none too fine in his feelings. He does not mind the neighborhood; likes quiet, he says. I hope you will know him for yourself some day,” the detective slyly added.

At this return to the forbidden subject, I held myself very much aloof.

“Your diagram is interesting,” I remarked, “but it has not in the least changed my determination. It is you who will return to X, and that, very soon.”

“Very soon?” he repeated. “Whoever goes there on this errand must go at once; tonight, if possible; if not, tomorrow at the latest.”

“Tonight! tomorrow!” I expostulated. “And you thought⁠—”

“No matter what I thought,” he sighed. “It seems I had no reason for my hopes.” And folding up the map, he slowly rose. “The young man we have left there is doing more harm than good. That is why I say that someone of real ability must replace him immediately. The detective from New York must seem to have left the place.”

I made him my most ladylike bow of dismissal.

“I shall watch the papers,” I said. “I have no doubt that I shall soon be gratified by seeing in them some token of your success.”

He cast a rueful look at his hands, took a painful step toward the door, and dolefully shook his head.

I kept my silence undisturbed.

He took another painful step, then turned.

“By the way,” he remarked, as I stood watching him with an uncompromising air, “I have forgotten to mention the name of the town in which these disappearances have occurred. It is called X, and it is to be found on one of the spurs of the Berkshire Hills.” And, being by this time at the door, he bowed himself out with all the insinuating suavity which distinguishes him at certain critical moments. The old fox was so sure of his triumph that he did not wait to witness it. He knew⁠—how, it is easy enough for me to understand now⁠—that X was a place I had often threatened to visit. The family of one of my dearest friends lived there, the children of Althea Knollys. She had been my chum at school, and when she died I had promised myself not to let many months go by without making the acquaintance of her children. Alas! I had allowed years to elapse.