Stuart Bruxton was seated in the smoking car of a two-coach train that was wending its curving way through the hills of northern Massachusetts. He was traveling on a branch line, and was alone in the car.
To Stuart, the purpose of this quiet journey was puzzling. He was acting upon instructions given him by Harry Vincent. He was going to a place called Greenhurst.
This hamlet, Stuart had learned, was a budding summer resort that had failed to bloom. In Greenhurst, he was to keep a watchful eye on the affairs of two men; Paul Hawthorne, a real-estate promoter who had not yet managed to put Greenhurst on the map of Massachusetts; and Sherwood Mayo, a multimillionaire of many enterprises.
What had these two to do with strange events that had occurred in Maryland? Could there be any connection between them and the sinister old man who had sought Stuart's life?
Hawthorne was managing the affairs of a summer colony. Mayo dwelt on an estate, resisting the invasion of what he considered to be feudal rights.
From Harry, Stuart had learned that some hostility was supposed to exist between the two men. For some reason, both should be observed, although Harry had been very meager in his information. Ever since Stuart, anxious to aid in the cause of justice, had agreed to work with Harry, he had felt a positive conviction that some directing hand was in back of his rescuer's activities. Harry had told Stuart that further instructions would reach him at Greenhurst. He had also indicated the manner in which those instructions would be received. It had made Stuart wonder. As the train pulled into the little station of Greenhurst, Stuart felt a sudden interest. This was a campaign that called for diplomacy. He must meet two men and win their confidence. That would be easy with Hawthorne. Mayo might be a different matter. Stuart decided that Paul Hawthorne would be his best approach.
There were no houses near the station. The summer colony was a mile away. Stuart entered a touring car that bore a sign "Taxi." He started for the village. On the way he questioned the driver about Paul Hawthorne.
"You're going to the Inn?" queried the driver. "Well, it's only a little spell up the road to Mr. Hawthorne's.
'Bout a fifteen-minute walk, I should say. The house sets back from the road apiece.
"I reckon he's out running round the township, marking out places for new cottages.