The county turnpike goes through Longwood, and then sweeps away over the open country between the estates and the farms and now and then a village—Huntley, Latourette, Corona—strung out along it like beads on a string. A hundred and fifty miles off it reaches Bloomington, a big town with hotels and factories and a jail. About twenty miles before it gets to Bloomington it crosses the branch line near Cresset’s Farm. There’s a little sort of station there—just an open shed—called Cresset’s Crossing, built for the Cresset Farm people, who own a good deal of land in that vicinity. Not far from Cresset’s Crossing, about a half mile apart, the Riven Rock Road from the Junction and the Firehill Road from Jack Reddy’s estate run into the turnpike. This is the place, I guess, where I’d better tell about Jack Reddy, who was such an important figure in the Hesketh mystery and who—I get red now when I write it—was such an important figure to me. A good ways back—about the time of the Revolution—the Reddy family owned most of the country round here. Bit by bit they sold it off till in old Mr. Reddy’s time—Jack’s father—all they had left was the Firehill property and Hochalaga Lake, a big body of water, back in the hills beyond Huntley. Firehill is an old-fashioned, stone house, built by Mr. Reddy’s grandfather. It got its name from a grove of maples on the top of a mound that in the autumn used to turn red and orange and look like the hillock was in a blaze. The name, they say, came from the Indian days and so did Hochalaga, though what that stands for I don’t know. The Reddys had had lots of offers for the lake but never would sell it. They had a sort of little shack there and before Jack’s time, when there were no automobiles, used to make horseback excursions to Hochalaga and stay for a few days. After the old people died and Jack came into the property everybody thought he’d sell the lake—several parties were after it for a summer resort—but he refused them all, had the shack built over into an up-to-date bungalow, and through the summer would have guests down from town, spending week-ends out there. Now I’m telling everything truthful, for that’s what I set out to do, and if you think I’m a fool you’re welcome to and no back talk from me—but I was crazy about Jack Reddy. Not that he ever gave me cause; he’s not that kind and neither am I. And let me say right here that there’s not a soul ever knew it, he least of all. I guess no one would have been more surprised than the owner of Firehill if he’d known that the Longwood telephone girl most had heart failure every time he passed the window of the Exchange.