lovely lady--of her vision of sudden death, her
essentially lonely struggle with it, her touching words to him when
she came back to life--all this was so vivid and unforgettable that he
drove straight to Castle Gordon.

The great house was shut up like a tomb: every door and window was
closed, except where half of one of the shutters had broken loose and
hung by a single hinge. He drove around to the back. It was the same
there. A cobweb was spun across the lower corner of the door and tiny
drops of moisture jewelled it. Perhaps it had been made in the early
morning. If so, no one had come out of the door since night.

Carmichael knocked, and knocked again. No answer. He called. No reply.
Then he drove around to the portico with the tall white pillars and
tried the front door. It was locked. He peered through the half-open
window into the drawing-room. The glass was crusted with dirt and the
room was dark. He was trying to make out the outlines of the huddled
furniture when he heard a step behind him. It was the old farmer from
the nearest cottage on the road.

"Mornin', doctor! I seen ye comin' in, and tho't ye might want to see
the house."

"Good morning, Scudder! I do, if you'll let me in. But first tell me
about these automobile tracks in the drive."

The old man gazed at him with a kind of dull surprise as if the
question were foolish.

"Why, ye made 'em yerself, comin' up, didn't ye?"

"I mean those larger tracks--they were made by a much heavier car than
mine."

"Oh," said the old man, nodding, "them was made by a big machine that
come in here las' week. You see this house 's bin shet up 'bout ten
years, ever sence ol' Jedge Gordon died. B'longs to Miss Jean--her
that run off with the Eye-talyin. She kinder wants to sell it, and
kinder not--ye see--"

"Yes," interrupted Carmichael, "but about that big machine--when did
you say it was here?"

"P'raps four or five days ago; I think it was a We'nsday. Two fellers
from Philadelfy--said they wanted to look at the house, tho't of
buyin' it. So I bro't 'em in, but when they seen the outside of it
they said they didn't want to look at it no more--too big and too
crumbly!"

"And since then no one has been here?"

"Not a soul--leastways nobody that I seen. I don't s'pose you think o'
buyin' the house, doc'! It's too lonely for an office, ain't it?"

"You're right, Scudder, much too lonely. But I'd like to look through
the old place, if you will take me i