II
The next evening at seven o’clock, Holland stepped out of the train on the Hillsborough station. He wore a long fur-coat, for the morning had been bitterly cold in New York, and though the snow was now falling in small close flakes, the temperature had not risen appreciably, and a wild wind was blowing.
He looked about for the figure of McFarlane, for he had telegraphed the old man to meet him at the train with a trap, but there was no one to be seen. The station, which in summer on the arrival of the express was a busy scene with well dressed women and well-kept horses, was now utterly deserted except for one native who had charge of the mails.
“Hullo, Harris,” Geoffrey sung out. “Is McFarlane here for me?”
“Ain’t seen him. Guess it’s too stormy for the old man,” Harris replied dropping the mail bag into his wagon.
“Then you’ve got to drive me out.”
“What, all the way to your place? No, sir, I guess it is too stormy for me, too.”
But Geoffrey at last, by the promise of three times what the trip was worth, induced Harris to change his mind. He stepped into the mail cart, and having stopped at the post-office to leave the bag, and at the stable to change the cart for a sleigh, they finally set out on their five-mile drive.
“Guess you come up to see about Mr. May’s house being robbed?” Harris hazarded before they had gone far.
“You’re a nice lot, aren’t you?” returned Geoffrey. “Five robberies and not a motion to catch the thief!”