"We
shall be there about an hour after sundown."
Then I re-entered the stuffy old conveyance that rocked and rolled as we
dashed away over the uneven forest road, and sat wondering to what
manner of place I was being conducted.
Elma Heath was in hiding. Why? I recollected her curious letter and
remembered every word of it. She wished Hornby to know that she had
never revealed her secret. What secret, I wondered?
I lit an abominable cigar, and tried to smoke, but I was too filled with
anxiety, too bewildered by the maze of mystery in which I now found
myself. Two hours later we pulled up before a long log-built post-house
just beyond a small town in a hollow that faced the sea, and I alighted
to watch the steaming horses being replaced by a trio of fresh ones. The
place was Dadendal, I was informed, and the proprietor of the place,
when I entered and tossed off a liqueur-glass of cognac, pointed out to
me a row of granite buildings fallen much to decay as the ancient
convent.
Then, resuming our journey, the short day quickly drew to a close, the
sun sank yellow and watery over the towering pines through which we went
mile after mile, a dense, interminable forest wherein the wolves lurked
in winter, often rendering the road dangerous.
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