It was late in the afternoon when he reached the station near Elmford. He inquired the way from the agent.
"It's about ten minutes' walk," the man replied. "Maybe you're a reporter or a cop? Say, there's no mystery about that case. Any word of the doctor?"
Garth smiled discreetly. He disentangled himself from the agent's curiosity and set off along a road bordered by unlovely suburban dwellings.
These soon gave way to fields and hedges which in turn straggled into a miniature forest. Just beyond that the gateway opened to the left. Garth walked through and up to the secluded house. He glanced at the two automobiles, near each other in the drive.
A tired-looking man in plain clothes lounged in the verandah. Another with a languid air paced up and down at the side. They became animated and converged on Garth, anxious to know if the inspector had got any word of Randall.
While he was talking to them Garth first became aware of a mournful undertone, sometimes punctuated by a shrill, despairing note, now smothered in a heavy silence.
"What's that?" he asked sharply.
The men moved restlessly.
"Been listening to that music all day," one of them answered. "Lonely hole! Who'd want to live here?"
"I see. Mrs. Randall," Garth said. "I'd hoped she'd be able to stand a little talk by this time."