And now here was Dr. Calgroni, living in the quiet little town of Belleville, where none was aware of his sensational hypothesis, renting this immense old ramshackle place, and his remarkable intent known to no one but himself.
I had taken a seat on a tree stump, in front of the gate, which had a ring stapled to it, used in former days as a hitching-post. Time hung heavily upon me in Belleville, but this new element of mystery promised some possible interest and excitement.
Having sat there until my pipe was empty and cold, I was aroused by the noise of the gate opening behind me, followed by the tap-tap of a hammer. I turned.
There stood the doctor in his shirt sleeves, tacking a sign to the gate post. Crudely painted in black on white cardboard I read:
POSITIVELY NO ADMITTANCE!
Anyone entering here does so at his own risk.
T. Calgroni.
Without even casting a glance my way, the doctor closed the gate behind him and seemed about to depart up the weed-grown gravel walk, when, glancing down the dusky street, he checked himself.
My gaze followed the direction of his eyes. A wagon was approaching. It drew up at the stump and halted. Loaded with big boxes, the mules were sweating after the pull. Their surly-faced driver stopped twenty feet away and turned to the doctor:
“I know I’m late,” I overheard him grumble, “but I handled the boxes carefully as you said. Shall I drive in?”
“You’d better,” returned Calgroni in crisp English, still not noticing me. “And remember, if there’s a thing broken not a cent do you get.” And he wheeled up the path.