“Whose is it? I’ve a mighty curiosity about the horse. Looks like a trick horse.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that. It belongs to a respectable family. A family you must have heard about if you ever heard anything. There’s a funeral there to-day—”
“Not Miss Cumberland’s?” exclaimed Sweetwater, all agog in a moment.
“Yes, Miss Cumberland’s. I thought you might have heard the name.”
“Yes, I’ve heard it.”
The tone was dry, the words abrupt, but the detective’s heart was dancing like a feather. The next turn he took was toward the handsome residence district crowning the hill.
XI
IN THE COACH HOUSE
All things that we ordained festival
Turn from their office to black funeral;
Our instruments to melancholy bells;
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;
And all things change them to the contrary.
Romeo and Juliet.
Fifteen minutes later, he stood in a finely wooded street before an open gateway guarded by a policeman. Showing his badge, he passed in, and entered a long and slightly curved driveway. As he did so, he took a glance at the house. It was not as pretentious as he expected, but infinitely more inviting. Low and rambling, covered with vines, and nestling amid shrubbery which even in winter gave it a habitable air, it looked as much the abode of comfort as of luxury, and gave—in outward appearance at least—no hint of the dark shadow which had so lately fallen across it.