“He did not say good-by to me,” corrected Oliver. “He didn’t even say good night. Please get that straight, Mr. Malone. He was angry with me—and I do not deny that I was angry myself. We parted in anger.” “Do you know a man named Peter Hines, Mr. Baxter?” asked Malone abruptly. “Pete Hines? Certainly. He is a tenant of my father’s. Lives in a shack up at the other end of the swamp. He has done odd jobs for us ever since I can remember. Wood-chopping, rail-splitting and all that. He also does most of the drinking for the estate,” he concluded dryly. “A souse, eh?” “I’ve never known him to be completely sober—and I’ve never heard of him being completely drunk. He’s that kind.” “Do you remember seeing him the night your father disappeared?” “No. I did not see him.” “By the way, have you ever seen me before to-day?” “Not to my knowledge.” “Well,” said Malone, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ve been hanging around this burg since last Monday—five days, in all. I’ve done quite a bit of sleuthing, as they say in the dime novels. I’m the fellow that sold your housekeeper, Mrs. Grimes, the beautifully illustrated set of Jane Austen’s works day before yesterday. I also sold an unexpurgated set of the Arabian Nights to Mr. Samuel Parr, the insurance agent. He tells me your father carried a fifteen thousand dollar life policy. I tried to sell a set of Dickens to the Reverend Mr. Sage, and succeeded in having a long talk with his daughter about the book entitled ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood.’ That led up, quite naturally, to the mystery of Oliver Baxter. I’ve had dealings with Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link, Banker Lansing, John Phillips and a number of other citizens, male and female.” He laughed quietly. “Of course, the books will never be delivered, Mr. Baxter—but as it is understood that no payments are to be made until the first two volumes are delivered, I can’t be charged with swindling. I can face my victims with perfect equanimity—but I don’t believe they’ll recognize me. I was in your store last Tuesday, but you were off on political business. Shall we stroll down to the swamp, Mr. Baxter, or would you rather wait a day or two? Suit your own convenience. We’re in no hurry, you see.” “That is obvious,” said Oliver curtly. “I must notify you, Mr. Malone, that if you or any of your workmen slip into one of those pits of mire out there and never come up again, I am not to be held accountable. If you venture out beyond the safety zone you do so at your own risk.” “Right-o!” said Malone cheerily. They were well around the corner of the house on their way to the swamp road before he spoke again. “How many people have lost their lives out there?” he inquired. “None, so far as I know.” “But there must have been any number of men who have ventured out there.” “What makes you think so? I don’t know of a single soul who has had the courage—or the folly—to go anywhere near those sink-holes.”