I’d passed the house one day in August when I was on an auto ride with some friends. It was a big, rambling place with a lot of dismal-looking pines around it, about five miles from Azalea and with no near neighbors. Mr. Cokesbury only kept one car—he’d had several when his wife was there—and used to drive himself down from the Lodge to the station, leave his car in the Azalea garage, and drive himself back the next time he came. He had no servants or caretaker, which he didn’t need, as, after Mrs. Cokesbury’s death, all the valuable things had been taken out of the house and sent to town for storage. It gave me a jar to hear that Sylvia Hesketh—who, in my mind, was as good as engaged to Jack Reddy—would have anything to do with him. I’d never seen him, but I’d heard a lot that wasn’t to his credit. He hadn’t been good to his wife—everybody said she was a real lady—but was the gay, wild kind, and not young, either. Anne said he was forty if he was a day. When I asked her what Sylvia could see in an old gink like that, she just shrugged up her shoulders and said, who could tell—Sylvia was made that way. She was like some woman whose name I can’t remember who sat on a rock and sang to the sailors till they got crazy and jumped into the water. My head was full of these things one glorious afternoon toward the end of October when—it being my holiday—I started out for a walk through the woods. The woods cover the hills behind the village and they’re grand, miles and miles of them. But wait! There was a little thing that happened, by the way, that’s worth telling, for it gave me a premonition—is that the word? Or, maybe, I’d better say connected up with what was in my mind. I was walking slow down Main Street when opposite the postoffice I saw all the loafers and most of the tradespeople lined up in a ring staring at a bunch of those dago acrobats that go about the State all summer doing stunts on a bit of carpet. I’d seen them often—chaps in dirty pink tights walking on their hands and rolling round in knots—and I wouldn’t have stopped but I got a glimpse of little Mick Donahue stumping round the outside trying to squeeze in and trying not to cry because he couldn’t. So I stopped and hoisted him up for a good view, telling the men in front to break a way for the kid to see. There was a dago scraping on a fiddle and while the acrobats were performing on their carpet, a big bear with a little, brown, shriveled-up man holding it by a chain, was dancing. And when I got my first look at that bear, in spite of all my worry I burst out laughing, for, dancing away there solemn and slow, it was the dead image of Dr. Fowler.