“Say, mister, where is Mr. Carter?”
It was a boy of about fourteen who hailed me—a boy with the reddest hair I have ever seen and more freckles than any boy ought to have. He stood at the bottom of the steps looking at me with a very serious expression on his face. He seemed so disappointed when I told him Carter was away that I asked him what he wanted. For a moment or so he studied me as if to decide if I could be trusted. Then, as if reassured, he came up the steps to my side.
Giving me that searching look which all boys use in greeting people whom they do not know, he asked:
“Are you a detective like Mr. Carter?”
I assured him that I might be called something of the sort and received a rather admiring grin. Then seating himself on the top step, he patted the dog which had come to his side and said:
“You know I went down to Court to-day, and I heard Jimmy Weedon tell about seeing that boat.”
I judged that Weedon must be the caretaker of Warren's grounds. In reply to my question the boy said that he was; and with a laugh added:
“Jimmy said that he never saw anybody on Mr. Warren's grounds yesterday, but I did.”
I gave him one look, and he went on.
“I thought maybe Mr. Carter might like to know what I saw. I caddy for him when he plays golf. My name is George.”