"Nothing like getting the lay of the land," he remarked as he climbed back into the carriage. "That Miller is a picturesque old party. He thinks it's all tommy-rot that Radnor Gaylord had anything to do with the crime—Rad's a customer of his, and it's a downright imposition to lock the boy up where he can't spend money."
For the rest of the drive Terry kept silence and I did not venture to interrupt it. I had come to have a superstitious feeling that his silences were portentous. It was not until I stopped to open the gate into our own home lane, that he suddenly burst out with the question:
"Where do the Mathers people live?"
"A couple of miles farther down the pike—they have no connection whatever with the business, and don't know a thing about it."
"Ah—perhaps not. Would it be too late to drive over to-night?"
"Yes," said I, "it would."
"Oh, very well," said he, good-humoredly. "There'll be time enough in the morning."
I let this pass without comment, but on one thing I was resolved; and that was that Polly Mathers should never fall into Terry's clutches.
"There are a lot of questions I want to ask about your ghost, but I'll wait till I get my bearings—and my dinner," he added with a laugh. "There wasn't any dining car on that train, and I breakfasted early and omitted lunch."
"Here we are," I said, as we came in sight of the house. "The cook is expecting us."