who once said, under somewhat different circumstances I
allow, "Whither thou goest I will go."

The truth was, I had travelled so far and learned so little, that
my professional pride was piqued. That expression of Mr. Gryce still
rankled, and nothing could soothe my injured spirit now but success.
Accordingly when Mr. Blake stepped up to the ticket office of the Hudson
River Railroad next morning, to buy a ticket for Putney, a small town
in the northern part of Vermont, he found beside him a spruce
young drummer, or what certainly appeared such, who by some strange
coincidence, wanted a ticket for the same place. The fact did not seem
in the least to surprise him, nor did he cast me a look beyond the
ordinary glance of one stranger at another. Indeed Mr. Blake had no
appearance of being a suspicious man, nor do I think at this time,
he had the remotest idea that he was either watched or followed; an
ignorance of the truth which I took care to preserve by taking my seat
in a different car from him and not showing myself again during the
whole ride from New York to Putney.

CHAPTER VII. THE HOUSE AT THE GRANBY CROSS ROADS

Why Mr. Blake should take a journey at all at this time, and why of
all places in the world he should choose such an insignificant town
as Putney for his destination, was of course the mystery upon which I
brooded during the entire distance. But when somewhere near five in the
afternoon I stepped from the cars on to the platform at Putney Station
only to hear Mr. Blake making inquiries in regard to a certain stage
running between that town and a still smaller village further east, I
own I was not only surprised but well-nigh nonplussed. Especially as
he seemed greatly disappointed to hear that it only ran once a day, and
then for an earlier train in the morning.

"You will have to wait till to-morrow I fear," said the ticket agent,
"unless the landlord of the hotel down yonder, can harness you up a
team. There is a funeral out west to-day and--"

I did not wait to hear more but hurried down to the hotel he had pointed
out, and hunting up the landlord inquired if for love or money he could
get me any sort of a conveyance for Melville that afternoon. He assured
me it would be impossible, the livery stable as well as his own being
entirely empty.

"Such a thing don't happen here once in five years," said he to me. "But
the old codger who is dead, though a queer dick was a noted personage in