ville, where de Graudin and Towbridge wanted his word on translating certain old Dutch documents better left untranslated. Heading west and south toward his home, he passed Scott's Meadows. And, though it was nearly dark and snowy, he could not resist the opportunity to visit Criley's Mill then and there.
A druggist on the little main street gave him directions. The judge drove up a steep ill-paved road, then between hills crowned with naked trees. Eventually he came to an old quarry road and followed it to here, across a rapid brown brook, a creaky bridge led to the place.
By the last rays of the sun, he decided he had either come the wrong way or come too late.
He had heard of a tall, gaunt building, the ruins of a mill house—a place two hundred years old. that looked two thousand. This was almost the opposite—quite new, of brown shingles, low and rambling, with a screened porch and wide windows. The place should have been cheerful, but it was not.
Pursuivant drove across, got out and knocked at the door. Snow began to shimmer down. Lights went on in the front room, and a man opened the door. He was small and slim, with a gray forelock and a lined, shrewd face, reminiscent of the late Will Rogers. He wore a smoking jacket and slippers.
"Yes?" he half challenged.
"Excuse me," replied Pursuivant, hunching his massive shoulders, "but is this Criley's Mill? The haunted house?"
"Haunted?" echoed the man on the threshold. "Why, I—I don't know."
There seemed to be only one thing to say. Pursuivant shook snowflakes from his tawny mustache and said it. "I'm sorry to have troubled you. I seem to have made a mistake."
At once the other changed his manner "Oh, no, sir. No mistake. This was the place. You see, I built where Criley's Mill was—just finished and moved in on Thanksgiving—look here, won't you come in? I'm sorry if I was abrupt. Just nerves. I didn't know who might be coming to my door—so far away from everything—"
His gaunt little hand caught at Pursuivant's big one. "Come in, sir. Or—wait. It's putting on to snow. I've got a double garage around back. Want to slide your car in with mine? Then we'll have a drink. Maybe a bite to eat."
He wanted Pursuivant to stay. The judge gazed at him with big blue eyes, deceptively innocent. Then he nodded and said, "Thanks. I'll be very glad to stay."
After stowing the car, he returned through the snow. The little man still waited at the door to usher him in. "What did you say your name was?"
The judge had not said, but he replied, "Pursuivant. Judge Keith Pursuivant. I'm interested in haunted houses."
"And I'm Alvin Scrope—country editor, retired, bachelor." They were in the front room now, a room designed to answer a man's prayer for comfort. It had cushioned furniture, thick rugs, bright pictures, plenty of light, a shelf of books. But, as outside, the cheer was somehow lacking. "You'll have to pardon me," said Alvin Scrope. "My house boy left here New Year's eve, and I'm running the place alone for a day or so."
From a side table he lifted a bottle of scotch and a syphon. Mixing two high-balls, he gave one to Pursuivant. "Snow's coming down harder. You'd better plan to stay the night."
Pursuivant laid aside overcoat and black hat. "You are very kind," he said. wondering why he had been half-rebuffed at first, then almost wheedled into entering. Alvin Scrope dabbed at his forelock.
"Yes, sir," he said, trying to sound
