was a Mr. Weed of Eighty-sixth Street--a well-known
man of unimpeachable reputation.

Calling him up at his business office, I asked him what he could tell
me about Mr. Postlethwaite of Gloom Cottage, ----, N. J. The answer
astonished me:

"There is no Mr. Postlethwaite to be found at that address. He died
years ago. There is a Mrs. Postlethwaite--a confirmed paralytic. Do you
mean her?"

I glanced at the letter still lying open at the side of the telephone:

"The signature reads A. Postlethwaite."

"Then it's she. Her name is Arabella. She hates the name, being a woman
of no sentiment. Uses her initials even on her cheques. What does she
want of you?"

"To draw her will."

"Oblige her. It'll be experience for you." And he slammed home the
receiver.

I decided to follow the suggestion so forcibly emphasized; and the next
day saw me at Highland Station. A superannuated horse and a still more
superannuated carriage awaited me--both too old to serve a busy man
in these days of swift conveyance. Could this be a sample of the
establishment I was about to enter? Then I remembered that the woman who
had sent for me was a helpless invalid, and probably had no use for any
sort of turnout.

The driver was in keeping with the vehicle, and as noncommittal as the
plodding beast he drove. If I ventured upon a remark, he gave me a
long and curious look; if I went so far as to attack him with a direct
question, he responded with a hitch of the shoulder or a dubious smile
which conveyed nothing. Was he deaf or just unpleasant? I soon learned
that he was not deaf; for suddenly, after a jog-trot of a mile or so
through a wooded road which we had entered from the main highway, he
drew in his horse, and, without glancing my way, spoke his first word:

"This is where you get out. The house is back there in the bushes."

As no house was visible and the bushes rose in an unbroken barrier along
the road, I stared at him in some doubt of his sanity.

"But--" I began; a protest into which he at once broke, with the sharp
direction:

"Take the path. It'll lead you straight to the front door."

"I don't see any path."

For this he had no answer; and confident from his expression that it
would be useless to expect anything further from him, I dropped a coin
into his hand, and jumped to the ground. He was off before I could turn
myself about.

"'Something is rotten in the State of Denmark,'" I quoted in startled
comment to myse