Mr. Hallam was a very busy, very sanguine, very impetuous young man; and when he met Ruthven at the Edgewater station he told him promptly that he had the best case on earth; that he, Hallam, was going to New York on the next train, now almost due, and that Ruthven had better drive over and see for himself how gaily his wife maintained her household; for the Cossack sleigh, with its gay crimson tchug, had but just returned from the usual afternoon spin, and the young chatelaine of Willow Villa was now on the snow-covered lawn, romping with the coachman's huge white wolf-hound. . . . It might he just as well for Ruthven to stroll up that way and see for himself. The house was known as the Willow Villa. Any hackman could drive him past it. As Hallam was speaking the New York train came thundering in, and the young lawyer, facing the snowy clouds of steam, swung his suit-case and himself aboard. On the Pullman platform he paused and looked around and down at Ruthven. "It's just as you like," he said. "If you'd rather come back with me on this train, come ahead! It isn't absolutely necessary that you make a personal inspection now; only that fellow Selwyn is not here to-day, and I thought if you wanted to look about a bit you could do it this afternoon without chance of running into him and startling the whole mess boiling." "Is Captain Selwyn in town?" asked Ruthven, reddening. "Yes; an agency man telephoned me that he's just back from Sandy Hook--" The train began to move out of the station. Ruthven hesitated, then stepped away from the passing car with a significant parting nod to Hallam. As the train, gathering momentum, swept past him, he stared about at the snow-covered station, the guard, the few people congregated there. "There's another train at four, isn't there?" he asked an official. "Four-thirty, express. Yes, sir." A hackman came up soliciting patronage. Ruthven motioned him to follow, leading the way to the edge of the platform. "I don't want to drive to the village. What have you got there, a sleigh?" It was the usual Long Island depot-wagon, on runners instead of wheels. "Do you know the Willow Villa?" demanded Ruthven. "Wilier Viller, sir? Yes, sir. Step right this way--" "Wait!" snapped Ruthven. "I asked you if you knew it; I didn't say I wanted to go there." The hackman in his woolly greatcoat stared at the little dapper, smooth-shaven man, who eyed him in return, coolly insolent, lighting a cigar. "I don't want to go to the Willow Villa," said Ruthven; "I want you to drive me past it." "Sir?" "_Past_ it. And then turn around and drive back here. Is that plain?" "Yes, sir." Ruthven got into the closed body of the vehicle, rubbed the frost from the window, and peeked out. The hackman, unhitching his lank horse, climbed to the seat, gathered the reins, and the vehicle started to the jangling accompaniment of a single battered cow-bell.