“No,” the other quickly answered, getting into his roadster. “I’ll go it alone. See you later.”
He shot off down the road in a cloud of powdery dust.
Hunky and I went into the cool interior of the country store and regaled ourselves with root beer and the store-keeper’s conversation, which for the moment was wholly of the young District Attorney. He was a most remarkable county official, we were told.
It seemed but a moment when the subject of the talk was back in another swirl of dust. He jumped out of his car. We went out to meet him.
“Gone,” he said laconically to our inquiring look. “But somebody was there all right. What the devil they wanted is more than I can fathom. Nothing disturbed—isn’t much to disturb. But it bothers me. You’re sure about that gun?” His eyes bored us.
Hunky faced him.
“Quite,” he said quietly. “I know guns. Also, I know the look in eyes behind them. I’m a physician and I have to know people. This old woman had some good reason for wanting to scare us away.”
“I know that,” replied the young man, with his mouth set in a line. “Guns and deserted houses don’t make a very reassuring picture.”
“Did you look all around the house?” inquired my friend.