“What make of car?”
“I’m not sure.”
“No matter.” The doctor spoke to Lady and the dog, sure-footed, led them through the night. Jerry Moore was closing the garage and Ike Boles, the station agent, gave them a toothless grin.
“Hear about the telegram that came this afternoon, Doctor? Fellow named John’s glad to hear the fishing’s good and aims to come up tomorrow on the 8:11 from New York.”
Memory jingled the wires in Joe’s brain. Was this the same John Rog and his companion were anxious to avoid?
“Somebody,” Dr. Stone said mildly, “is evidently playing a little joke on John. Who was the telegram for, Ike?”
“Fellow named Carl Metz. Can’t find hide or hair of him hereabouts. Telegram’s lying undelivered at the station. Anybody hear tell of a Carl Metz?”
The intent look that Joe knew so well had come to the corners of the doctor’s mouth. “Jerry, remember the man with the husky voice who wouldn’t let you lift the hood? He had a faint accent. What would you call it?”
“German,” Jerry said promptly.
And Carl Metz was a German name. A slow excitement twitched through Joe’s nerves, and he followed his blind uncle and the dog up the quiet street.