“Did you—did you see anybody in the woods as you came along?” She gave him a quick glance.
“Not a soul. If I’d drowned, my clothes would have lain on the shore for weeks.”
She nodded. “It’s a lovely old place, Turner’s,” she remarked casually.
“Oh, so that is its name!”
“You’ve seen it then—the house among the trees?”
“Well, I came past it, you know,” he dissembled. “I got only a glimpse of it....”
The girl looked at him sharply, the carefree expression gone from her eyes. She stared at him for several minutes.
“How long have you been on your walking tour?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, about a week,” he answered easily. “I—”
The girl drew herself up. “I want to know the truth!” Her voice sounded a challenge. “Your name is Harold Johnson, and you flew up here night before last from Stamford, Connecticut!”