“I started to tell you at breakfast, but your parrot wouldn’t let me. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Lorraine acts as if the whole thing ought to be kept secret, and I’m sure she has a reason. Horace—”
“Don’t worry,” he assured Judy. “I won’t let the cat out of the bag.”
Again Judy thought of Blackberry shut in the attic.
“Maybe we should drive over to my house—”
“Later,” Horace promised, turning in at the private road to the Brandt estate. “Newspapermen never pay any attention to NO TRESPASSING signs,” he told Judy as they drove past the notice and straight up to the door of the house Judy was now seeing for the first time.
The top of the hill had looked like the end of the world. They had come down upon the house immediately afterwards. It was nestled in the hollow beyond the hilltop and rambled off in all directions, an attractive combination of brick and native stone. There were three or four tall chimneys. Judy didn’t count them because, just as she and Horace climbed out of the car, a black cat darted in front of them and through the open door. A grim, elderly man, who did not look at all pleased to see them, was holding it open. He had not waited for Horace to ring the bell.
“Herald reporter. May I have an interview?” Judy’s brother asked promptly.
“With whom, may I ask?”
The man’s tone was icy, but Horace replied in his usual bland manner, “I was told by my editor to get a good story from someone of importance. I leave it to you, sir. Who is the most important person here?”
The man, who was tall, white-haired, and rather an important-looking person himself, was about to reply when a woman’s voice from somewhere within the house called, “Who is it, Stanley?”