“At this time of night?”
“Well, it is a bit late, but so are we. Any port in a storm. Come along, Louise. I’ll venture that whatever is cooking in that kettle will be good.”
Penny rode on and Louise had no choice but to follow. A hundred yards farther on they came to an ancient farmhouse set back from the road. Dismounting, the girls tied their horses to an old-fashioned hitching rack near the sagging gate. A mailbox bore the name: Mrs. M. J. Lear.
“This is the place all right,” said Penny.
Just inside the gate stood an ancient domicile that by daylight was shaded by a giant sycamore. Built of small bricks, it had latticed windows, and a gabled front. An iron weathercock perched on the curling shingle roof seemed to gaze saucily down at the girls.
Going around the house to the back yard, Penny and Louise again came within view of the blazing fire. An old woman in a long black dress bent over the smoke-blackened kettle which hung from the iron crane. Hearing footsteps, she glanced up alertly.
“Who is it?” she called, and the crackled voice was sharp rather than friendly.
“Silas Malcom sent us here,” Penny said, moving into the arc of flickering light.
“And who be you? Friends o’ his?” The hatchet-faced woman peered intently, almost suspiciously at the two girls.
Penny gave her name and Louise’s, adding that they were seeking lodging for the night.