Beveridge and Smiley went up to the front door and knocked. There was no response. But for the light in one window, the house might have been deserted. Beveridge knocked again. “Open up in there!” he shouted. But no one answered. Smiley turned and looked around the dim clearing with a shudder. “Lonesome, isn't it?” he said. “What a place to live!” Beveridge's mind was bent on getting in. “So they won't answer, eh? We 'll see.” He stepped back to the ground, picked up a length of cord-wood, and struck a heavy blow on the door. At this, a head appeared in an upper window. “Who's there?” “Open your door and I 'll tell you.” “Tell me who you are, first.” “A special agent of the United States Treasury Department.” “What do you want me for?” “I don't care anything about you. I want the men you have hidden here.” “There ain't nobody here but my wife and me.” “Will you open, or shall I break in your door?” “Wait a minute! Don't break it! How do I know you're what you say you are?” “Smiley, fetch a rail, will you please?” “Hold on there! I 'll be down in a minute.” The minute was not a quarter gone when the same voice was heard through the door, saying, “You haven't told me your names yet.” “Are you going to open this door?” “Yes, yes. Don't get impatient now.” The bolt slid back, and the door opened a few inches. These inches were promptly occupied by Beveridge's foot. “What's your name, my friend?” asked the special agent. “Van Deelen. I don't see what you want here. There ain't nobody here but us.” “We 'll see about that.” Beveridge, as he spoke, threw his weight on the door and forced it open so abruptly that the farmer was thrown back against the wall. He entered with Smiley close at his heels. “Of course,” he went on, as he shut it behind him, “if there isn't anything really the matter here, you won't mind my looking around a little.” “Why, no--oh, no--only--” “Only what?” “My wife's down sick, and any noise or excitement might upset her.” “Nervous trouble, maybe.” “Yes, something of that sort.” “Has to keep her room, I suppose?” “Yes, yes.” “Room shut up so noise won't disturb her?” “Yes, we keep it shut.” “Place got on her nerves a little, maybe. Should think it would be sort of monotonous here. No doctor, I suppose?” “No, not this side of Hewittson.” “How long has she been troubled?” “Why--” “Sudden attack, to-day or yesterday? Sick headache, and all that?” “Yes--she has a bad headache.” “Good deal of nausea, too? Sight of food distasteful?” “Oh, yes, she doesn't want anything to eat. “Can't keep anything on her stomach? Lost interest in living--no enthusiasm for anything? Is that the form it takes?” “Why, yes--yes--” “Curious thing. Seems to prevail in this neighborhood. Young Lindquist, back up the road, has the same trouble.” Van Deelen's stolid face wore a puzzled expression. He seemed not to know how far to resent this inquisition. “Say,” he asked, “what do you want?”