"A farm on a hill," exclaimed Garry, "is of course a clue with absolute
individuality. So is a wood and a river."

"So," supplemented Kenny with the calm, unhurried air of one who scores
an unexpected point, "is a postmark on a letter."

Startled, Garry reached for the envelope. Kenny put it in his pocket.

"An obscure village in Pennsylvania," he explained with dignity, "where
your wood and your river will likely have definite individuality. I
shall go there."

Garry scented danger and considered the outcome in horrified dismay,
regretting his rash flurry of sympathy. It had become a boomerang.
What if Brian's protégé in a fit of remorse saw fit to keep his sister
posted? Kenny would indeed find clues. The possibility filled him
with foreboding.

"Kenny," he said with some heat, "I consider that you have absolutely
no right to take advantage of my letter to hunt Brian down. I'm sorry
I sent it in. If he wanted you to know where he is, he'd write you. I
wish to Heaven I'd thought of that postmark!"

"I shall tramp every inch on foot!" swore Kenny proudly. "Brian will
appreciate the spirit of the thing if you do not."

There was relief at least in that. Garry drew a long breath. If Kenny
tramped his way, another inexplicable factor in his lunacy, by the time
he reached the farmhouse Brian would be well on ahead. And Garry was