“Don’t be personal,” she laughed. “How did you know there was a river down in the valley?”
“Why, I brought a map of the Reservation with me—studied it on the way over while Terry drove. We’d never have found that dirt road Stoker’s house is on otherwise. Part of it is really in the Reservation, you see. The concrete road from Poundridge Village that runs to South Salem parallels it about a quarter of a mile to the east.”
“Route 124,” said Dorothy, walking carefully for fear of slipping again. “I know that road. Ever been in the Reservation, Bill?”
“No—have you?”
“When I was a little girl, we used to drive over, for picnics sometimes. I don’t remember much about it, though, except that it’s a terribly wild place—all rocks and ridges and forest. It covers miles. The state has cut trails and keeps them open, otherwise the woods have been left in their virgin state.”
“There are cabins, too, the map calls them shelters,” Bill informed her. “The state rents them to camping parties. Well, it’s quite wild enough to suit me right here. How are you making out?”
Dorothy was leading the way with her light.
“Fine, thanks. I’m on the level again.”
“Glad to hear that you are,” chuckled Bill.
“Silly! I mean I’m on fairly level ground again. And look what I’ve found.”