A short distance beyond the town Flash called Doyle’s attention to a cleared field. In its center stood a lone hangar. Through the windows they were able to see a red and black-painted airplane.
“This must be Rascomb’s private landing field,” Flash remarked.
“Probably,” Doyle agreed. “We’re close to his place now.”
A half mile farther on the sound truck reached a road which branched off to the left. Entrance was blocked by a wooden gate which bore a carved sign plainly marked: “Rascomb Lodge. No Admittance.”
Flash unfastened the barrier and Doyle drove through. The road led them deeper into the forest and presently emerged in a cleared area. To their right lay a crescent-shaped lake with motor and row boats tied up at the dock.
Some distance back stood a sprawling structure made of logs with a great cobblestone chimney. There were no automobiles parked in the yard. The boats, tugging gently at their moorings, provided the only sign of occupation.
“This place looks deserted,” observed Flash.
“Rascomb will be here.”
“But you said he had invited other guests. Rajah Mitra—”
“They may not have arrived yet.”