The door was suddenly opened--so suddenly, he realized, that the woman who now stood before him must have crept forward to peep at the intruder. He found himself confronted by a truly formidable female, built for cargo rather than for speed. Her arms appeared to be wet to the elbows, and were, in the words of Jim Sakers, to whom Barry later gave an account of the interview, “as per specification. See ‘Village Blacksmith,’ page 1.” Her muscular hands rested upon her hips. She was iron-jawed, and her regard was a challenge. “Good-morning,” he began. “My name is Barry Cumberland.” The woman did not reply. “I could get no answer to the bell,” he went on, “and came around in the hope of finding someone at home.” “There’s no one home but me.” “Can you tell me when they will be back?” “Who?” “Well--particularly the lady. The lady whom I really came to thank for her service----” “Say it again.” “The lady who witnessed an accident which took place outside this house two weeks ago.” The Amazon stared in silence, until: “Forgive me,” said Barry patiently, “but did you hear what I said?” “I heard.” “Then why don’t you answer?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “But a lady _does_ live here.” “Does she?” Barry was torn between laughter and indignation, but he feared an assault might follow any manifestation of either; therefore: “I think I told you that my name was Barry Cumberland?” he said in his most amiable manner. “You surely did.” “You may have heard the name?” “You said it twice.” “Hang it all! At least you must know I mean no harm. I want to thank the owner of the house for taking care of me when otherwise I might have died on the roadside.” “There’s no one home.” “So you have told me! But surely I can communicate with him somewhere? What is his name?” “Brown.” “But there are so many Browns! What is his first name?” “John.” Barry, stifling his rising anger, drew out a pocket case and pencil. Solemnly he noted the name “John Brown”; then: “And at what address can I write to Mr. Brown?” he asked. “I don’t know.” “I mean, is it anywhere in America, or has Mr. Brown gone to Europe?” “I don’t know.” Apparently by accident, a ten-dollar bill dropped from the case, and Barry held it out insinuatingly. Thereupon, with suddenly dilated nostrils, the formidable guardian of the empty mansion slammed the door in his face! He distinctly heard a bolt being shot. “Well, I’ll be damned!” said he. There are some situations from which retirement in good order is the only possible course; and Barry Cumberland recognized the fact that this was one of them. Returning his wallet to his pocket, he began to retrace his steps. “What the devil does it mean?” he muttered. Of the woman’s antagonism there could be no doubt, nor of her loyalty to her employer. “John Brown!” Of course, it was a fabrication. She was lying, deliberately. Her instructions plainly were to give no information--and she had followed them to the letter.