“How do we get to it, Uncle?” Dorothy asked after a moment.
“Run out de entrance till we come ter de turnpike, Missy. Den right, long dat road to Cross River. From de village yonder we follers de road ter Lake Waccabuc, but we don’t hafter travel dat far.”
“Good enough.” The car swung round the side of the house and into the road. “I guess Sam got rid of the Watchers by the Gate—there’s nobody at the entrance.”
They swept into the highroad and on through the pre-revolutionary hamlet of Cross River. Half a mile further, as they were speeding along the top of a wooded ridge, Uncle Abe spoke again.
“Dat stone fence long de road ter de right b’long ter Hilltop,” he pointed out. “De house am set way back from de road behin’ de trees. Round de bend ahead yo’all gwine ter see ’nother higher wall, dat starts by three white birches. Yonder am where Marse Joyce’s land begins.”
“And what’s on the farther side of the Joyce property?”
“Dere ain’t nuffin, Missy, ’cept jes’ mo’ dese hyar woods.”
“Fine! And I suppose, after being up here for nearly ten years, you can find your way about in those woods?”
“Sho’ can, Missy. Ef dere’s er rabbit hole dis nigger a’ missed in dem woods, I wanter know.”
“Better and better. You’re a marvellous help, Uncle Abe.”