"You see that brown house up
yonder, in the edge of that grove?"
"Yes."
"That's my place. I can't go up just now; but you may tell my wife
that I sent you, and it will be all right."
Dyke Darrel sauntered down past several dingy-looking dwellings until
he came to the house of Mr. Bragg. It was really the most respectable
dwelling in the place, which could not have been famous for its fine
residences.
The aspect about was not calculated to prepossess one in favor of the
country. Somehow, it seemed to the detective that Black Hollow was
half a century behind the age. Mrs. Bragg was a shy, ungainly female,
and not at all communicative.
Darrel occupied the remainder of the day in exploring the country in
the vicinity. A creek crossed the railroad and entered a deep gulch,
the sides of which were lined with a dense growth of bushes.
An ill-defined path led down the steep side of the gulch, and was lost
to sight in the dense growth at the bottom.
Dyke Darrel followed this path, and soon found himself in a dense wood
that seemed to cover a strip of bottom land. Moving on, the deep
shadows soon encompassed him on every side.
A solemn stillness seemed to pervade the place, and a feeling of
loneliness came over the detective.
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