R. W. C.
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CHAPTER I

THE BEDFORD ROAD

In the middle of the Bedford Road we three drew bridle. Boyd lounged
in his reeking saddle, gazing at the tavern and at what remained of
the tavern sign, which seemed to have been a new one, yet now dangled
mournfully by one hinge, shot to splinters.

The freshly painted house itself, marred with buckshot, bore dignified
witness to the violence done it. A few glazed windows still remained
unbroken; the remainder had been filled with blue paper such as comes
wrapped about a sugar cone, so that the misused house seemed to be
watching us out of patched and battered eyes.

It was evident, too, that a fire had been wantonly set at the
northeast angle of the house, where sill and siding were deeply
charred from baseboard to eaves.

Nor had this same fire happened very long since, for under the eaves
white-faced hornets were still hard at work repairing their partly
scorched nest. And I silently pointed them out to Lieutenant Boyd.

"Also," he nodded, "I can still smell the smoky wood. The damage is
fresh enough. Look at your map."