Mr. Nichols drove through the village and turned up a dark, narrow road which led to the summit of Knob Hill. The highway was densely lined with tall trees whose branches crashed in the wind. Penny and her father could see only a short distance beyond the headlights.
"I don't see how you ever found such an isolated place as this, Dad," Penny remarked as the car labored up the steep incline. "We'll practically be hermits up here."
"So much the better," laughed the detective.
The car rounded a curve in the road, and Penny saw a large, rambling old house with many cupolas, set back amid a grove of evergreen trees.
"That must be Herman Crocker's home," she remarked, turning her head to stare at it. "A gloomy old place."
"Young Walter Crocker had quite a walk if he came up here tonight," said the detective. "Too bad he didn't wait. We could have hauled him right to his door."
"I'm just as glad he went off," declared Penny. "Somehow I felt very uneasy when he was riding with us."
The car bumped on until Mr. Nichols saw a narrow lane leading to a tiny cottage on a knoll.
"This must be our little nest," he said, turning in.
The cottage was a plain white frame building with a cobblestone chimney overgrown by vines. Even at night the grounds appeared unkempt. Several loose shutters flapped in the wind.