Lost Man's Lane: A Second Episode in the Life of Amelia Butterworth — John Shaqi
Lost Man's Lane: A Second Episode in the Life of Amelia ButterworthGreen, Anna Katharine
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Lost Man's Lane: A Second Episode in the Life of Amelia Butterworth
Green, Anna Katharine
Detective and mystery stories; New York (State) -- Fiction
My companion, who was the shyest man I ever saw, did not speak a word
while we were descending the hill. I talked, and endeavored to make him
follow my example, but his replies were mere grunts or half-syllables
which conveyed no information whatever. As we cleared the thicket,
however, he allowed himself an ejaculation or two as he pointed out the
beauties of the landscape. And indeed it was well worth his admiration
and mine had my mind been free to enjoy it. But the houses, which now
began to appear on either side of the way, drew my attention from the
mountains. Though still somewhat remote from the town, we were rapidly
approaching the head of that lane of evil fame with whose awe-inspiring
history my thoughts were at this time full. I was so anxious not to pass
it without one look into its grewsome recesses that I kept my head
persistently turned that way till I felt I was attracting the attention
of my companion. As this was not desirable, I put on a nonchalant look
and began chatting about what I saw. But he had lapsed into his early
silence, and seemed wholly engrossed in his attempt to remove with the
butt-end of his whip a bit of rag which had somehow become entangled in
the spokes of one of the front wheels. The furtive look he cast me as he
succeeded in doing this struck me oddly at the moment, but it was too
small a matter to hold my attention long or to cause any cessation in
the flow of small talk with which I was endeavoring to enliven the
situation.
My desire for conversation lagged, however, as I saw rising up before us
the dark boughs of a pine thicket. We were nearing Lost Man's Lane; we
were abreast of it; we were--yes, we were turning into it!
I could not repress an exclamation of dismay.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"To Miss Knollys' house," he found words to say, with a sidelong glance
at me full of uneasy inquiry.
"Do they live on this road?" I cried, remembering with a certain shock
Mr. Gryce's suspicious description of the two young ladies who with
their brother inhabited the dilapidated mansion marked A in the map he
had shown me.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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