ad."

"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,