Something like three hundred yards through the woods brought him to a clearing back of the dwelling of the now suspected man. Off to the right was the faded old building used for his rubber business. One end of the clearing was covered with old boxes, barrels, and a huge pile of refuse.
Beyond the building, which was close upon the bank of the river, could be seen one end of a deep wooden sluice, in which revolved the wheel from which Ardley evidently derived the power to operate machinery of some kind.
Nick could hear no sound of any, however, though the dash and gurgle of water through the sluice faintly reached his ears.
As he came nearer the house, a brawny, hard-featured woman of middle age appeared at the back door. Her large, angular figure was clad in a calico wrapper, much the worse for dirt and wear.
“Is Mr. Ardley at home?” Nick inquired, pausing to question her.
“He’s out in the shop,” she replied, in rasping, nasal tones.
“Is he busy?”
“He’s allas busy.”
“Any one with him?”
“No. He’s alone. You’ll find him.”