When I came home that afternoon I found myself unexpectedly involved in a matter that for the remainder of the day at least, prevented me from further attending to the affair I had in hand.  The next morning Mr. Blake did not start out as usual, and at noon I received intimation from Fanny that he was preparing to take a journey.  Where, she could not inform me, nor when, though she thought it probable he would take an early train.  Mrs. Daniels was feeling dreadfully, she informed me; and the house was like a grave.  Greatly excited at this unexpected move on Mr. Blake’s part, I went home and packed my valise with something of the spirit of her who once said, under somewhat different circumstances I allow, “Whither thou goest I will go.”

The truth was, I had travelled so far and learned so little, that my professional pride was piqued.  That expression of Mr. Gryce still rankled, and nothing could soothe my injured spirit now but success.  Accordingly when Mr. Blake stepped up to the ticket office of the Hudson River Railroad next morning, to buy a ticket for Putney, a small town in the northern part of Vermont, he found beside him a spruce young drummer, or what certainly appeared such, who by some strange coincidence, wanted a ticket for the same place.  The fact did not seem in the least to surprise him, nor did he cast me a look beyond the ordinary glance of one stranger at another.  Indeed Mr. Blake had no appearance of being a suspicious man, nor do I think at this time, he had the remotest idea that he was either watched or followed; an ignorance of the truth which I took care to preserve by taking my seat in a different car from him and not showing myself again during the whole ride from New York to Putney.

CHAPTER VII

THE HOUSE AT THE GRANBY CROSS ROADS

Why Mr. Blake should take a journey at all at this time, and why of all places in the world he should choose such an insignificant town as Putney for his destination, was of course the mystery upon which I brooded during the entire distance.  But when somewhere near five in the afternoon I stepped from the cars on to the platform at Putney Station only to hear Mr. Blake making inquiries in regard to a certain stage running between that town and a still smaller village further east, I own I was not only surprised but well-nigh nonplussed.  Especially as he seemed greatly disappointed to hear that it only ran once a day, and then for an earlier train in the morning.

“You will have to wait till to-morrow I fear,” said the ticket agent, “unless the landlord of the hotel down yonder, can harness you up a team.  There is a funeral out west to-day and—­”

I did not wait to hear more but hurried down to the hotel he had pointed out, and hunting up the landlord inquired if for love or money he could get me any sort of a conveyance for Melville that afternoon.  He assured me it would be impossible, the livery stable as well as his own being entirely empty.