"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, but I did not forget that it stood very near the footpath branching off to the station.
"You entered this hut as well as the big houses?" I intimated.
"And found," was his answer, "four walls; nothing more."
I let my finger travel along the footpath I have just mentioned.
"Steep," was his comment. "Up, up, all the way, but no precipices. Nothing but pine woods on either side, thickly carpeted with needles."
My finger came back and stopped at the house marked M.
"Why is a letter affixed to this spot?" I asked.