The passenger had said something, but he did not repeat it. He was leaning from the carriage and gazing steadily up the slope ahead. And his gaze, strange to say, was not directed at the imposing Atkins estate, but at its opposite neighbor, the old “Cy Whittaker place.”
Slowly, laboriously, Dan'l Webster mounted the hill. At the crest he would have paused to take breath, but the driver would not let him.
“Git along, you!” he commanded, flapping the reins.
And then Mr. Lumley suffered the shock of a surprise. The hitherto cool and self-possessed occupant of the rear seat seemed very much excited. His big red hand clasped Mr. Lumley's over the reins, and Dan'l was brought to an abrupt standstill.
“Heave to!” he ordered, sharply, and the tone was that of one who has given many orders and expects them to be obeyed. “Belay! Whoa, there! Great land of love! look at that! LOOK at it! Who did that?”
The mate to the big red hand pointed to the front door of the Whittaker place. Gabe was alarmed.
“Done what? Done which?” he gasped. “What you talkin' about? There ain't nobody lives in there. That house has been empty for—”
“Where's the front fence?” demanded the excited passenger. “What's become of the hedge? And who put up that—that darned piazza?”
The piazza had been where it now was almost since Mr. Lumley could remember. He hastened to reply that he didn't know; he wasn't sure; he presumed likely 'twas “them New Hampshire Howeses,” when they ran a summer boarding house.
The stranger drew a long breath. “Well, of all the—” he began. Then he choked, hesitated, and ordered his driver to heave ahead and run alongside the hotel as quick as the Almighty would let him. Gabe hastened to obey. He was now absolutely certain that his companion was an escaped lunatic, and the sooner another keeper was appointed the better. The remainder of the trip was made in silence.