The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

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      “Mr. Gryce,” said I, after a few minutes’ close contemplation of this diagram, “I do not suppose you want any opinion from me.”

      “Madam,” he retorted, “it is all you have left me free to ask for.”

      Receiving this as a permission to speak, I put my finger on the road marked with a cross.

      “Then,” said I, “so far as I can gather from this drawing, all the disappearances seem to have taken place in or about this especial road.”

      “You are as correct as usual,” he returned. “What you have said is so true, that the people of the vicinity have already given to this winding way a special cognomen of its own. For two years now it has been called Lost Man’s Lane.”

      “Indeed!” I cried. “They have got the matter down as close as that, and yet have not solved its mystery? How long is this road?”

      “A half mile or so.”

      I must have looked my disgust, for his hands opened deprecatingly.

      “The ground has undergone a thorough search,” said he. “Not a square foot in those woods you see on either side of the road, but has been carefully examined.”

      “And the houses? I see there are three houses on this road.”

      “Oh, they are owned by most respectable people—most respectable people,” he repeated, with a lingering emphasis that gave me an inward shudder. “I think I had the honor of intimating as much to you a few minutes ago.”

      I looked at him earnestly, and irresistibly drew a little nearer to him over the diagram.

      “Have none of these houses been visited by you?” I asked. “Do you mean to say you have not seen the inside of them all?”

      “Oh,” he replied, “I have been in them all, of course; but a mystery such as we are investigating is not written upon the walls of parlors or halls.”

      “You freeze my blood,” was my uncharacteristic rejoinder. Somehow the sight of the homes indicated on this diagram seemed to bring me into more intimate sympathy with the affair.

      His shrug was significant.

      “I told you that this was no vulgar mystery,” he declared; “or why should I be considering it with you? It is quite worthy of your interest. Do you see that house marked A?”

      “I do,” I nodded.

      “Well, that is a decayed mansion of imposing proportions, set in a forest of overgrown shrubbery. The ladies who inhabit it——”

      “Ladies!” I put in, with a small shock of horror.

      “Young ladies,” he explained, “of a refined if not over-prosperous appearance. They are the interesting residue of a family of some repute. Their father was a judge, I believe.”

      “And do they live there alone,” I asked,—“two young ladies in a house so large and in a neighborhood so full of mystery?”

      “Oh, they have a brother with them, a lout of no great attractions,” he responded carelessly—too carelessly, I thought.

      I made a note of the house A in my mind.

      “And who lives in the house marked B?” I now queried.

      “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. Any one sitting at the window L can see whoever enters or leaves the lane at this end. And some one 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, СКАЧАТЬ