The little village of Clyde was taking its noontide nap when I drove down its principal street, and I felt like a wolf in Arcadia; all was so peaceful, so clean, so prim and so silent.
A solitary man emerging from a side street roused me to action. I drove forward and checked my horses directly before him.
Could I find a livery stable in the town? And was there such a thing as a hotel?
Yes, there was a sort of a stable, at least anybody could get a feed at Larkins' barn, and he kept two or three horses for hire. As for a hotel, there it was straight ahead of me; that biggish house with the new blinds on it.
Being directed to Larkins', I thanked my informant, and was soon making my wants known to Larkins himself.
Thinking it quite probable that the hired team which I drove might be known to some denizen of Clyde, I at once announced myself as from Trafton; adding, that I had driven out toward Clyde on business, and, being told that I could reach Baysville by a short cut through or near Clyde, I had driven on, but one of my horses having suddenly become lame, I had decided to rest at Clyde, and then return to Trafton. I had been told that Baysville was not more than seven miles from Clyde.
It is scarcely necessary to state that I had really no intention of visiting Baysville, and that my map had informed me as to its precise location.
The truth was that I had dropped for the moment the Trafton case, and had visited Clyde in the interest of Groveland, thinking it not unlikely that this little hamlet, being so near Amora, might be within the area traversed by Mr. Ed. Dwight, the sewing machine agent.
He was said to live somewhere between Amora and Sharon, perhaps here I could learn the precise location of his abiding place.