Five miles north of Danbury the rain slackened and finally stopped. The cool wind of early dawn sprang up and by the time they started to climb the winding turns of the Heartfield’s Valley, every cloud had been blown out of the sky. The east was painted a faint grayish pink as they roared into a straightaway between the wooded hills. Then the valley opened out, the road hugging the base of the hill on their left, while on the right wide meadows spread a carpet of high grasses that reached to the foot of the opposite hillside.
Half a mile further on, they came upon the old club house, set back from the highway in a group of fine elms. Here some attempt had been made to fashion a lawn, but as they swung up the rough drive, Bill noticed that the house was badly in need of paint and repair. He drew up at the side of the house, facing the red barn and an extensive apple orchard whose gnarled trees had not felt the pruning knife for many years. There appeared to be no bell, so Bill rapped sharply on the side door.
“Hello!” A man’s voice answered from behind a window screen just above. “What do you want down there?”
“Mr. Davis?” Bill stepped back a few paces so that he could get a better view of the window.
“That’s me,” said the owner of the voice, and yawned prodigiously.
“Mr. Dixon, the New Canaan banker, sent me up here to get some information from you, sir.”
“Wait a minute—I’ll come down.”
Osceola got out of the car and walked over to Bill. “How much are you going to tell him?” he asked in a low tone.
“Mr. Dixon said he was O.K.” Bill answered quietly. “Wait till he comes out. We’ll size him up for ourselves.”
The side door opened and a heavy set man with gray hair, arrayed in khaki trousers, a pajama jacket, and slippers, came out to meet them.