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