Woodstock. Across the
sparkling snow-smothered landscape his straining eyes went plowing on to
their unknown destination. Sometimes the engine pounded louder than his
heart. Sometimes he could not even seem to hear the grinding of the
brakes above the dreadful throb-throb of his temples. Sometimes in
horrid, shuddering chills he huddled into his great fur-coat and cursed
the porter for having a disposition like a polar bear. Sometimes almost
gasping for breath he went out and stood on the bleak rear platform of
the last car and watched the pleasant, ice-cold rails go speeding back
to Boston. All along the journey little absolutely unnecessary villages
kept bobbing up to impede the progress of the train. All along the
journey innumerable little empty railroad-stations, barren as bells
robbed of their own tongues, seemed to lie waiting--waiting for the
noisy engine-tongue to clang them into temporary noise and life.

Was his quest really almost at an end? Was it--was it? A thousand
vague apprehensions tortured through his mind.

And then, all of a sudden, in the early, brisk winter twilight,
Woodstock--happened!

Climbing out of the train Stanton stood for a second rubbing his eyes
at the final abruptness and unreality of it all. Woodstock! What was
it going to mean to him? Woodstock!

Everybody else on the platform seemed to be accepting the astonishing
geographical fact with perfect simplicity. Already along the edge of
the platform the quaint, old-fashioned yellow stage-coaches set on
runners were fast filling up with utterly serene passengers.

A jog at his elbow made him turn quickly, and he found himself gazing
into the detective's not ungenial face.

"Say," said the detective, "were you going up to the hotel first? Well
you'd better not. You'd better not lose any time. She's leaving town
in the morning." It was beyond human nature for the detective man not
to nudge Stanton once in the ribs. "Say," he grinned, "you sure had
better go easy, and not send in your name or anything." His grin
broadened suddenly in a laugh. "Say," he confided, "once in a magazine
I read something about a lady's 'piquant animosity'. That's her! And
_cute_? Oh, my!"

Five minutes later, Stanton found himself lolling back in the
quaintest, brightest, most pumpkin-colored coach of all, gliding with
almost magical smoothness through the snow-glazed streets of the
little narrow, valley-town.

"The Meredith homestead?" the driver had