Although I did not yet know the
precise nature of our adventure, I remembered with some misgiving
that I had read of police dogs in Glenclair which were
uncomfortably familiar with strangers carrying bundles. However,
we got along all right, perhaps because the dogs knew that in a
town of commuters every one was privileged to carry a bundle.
"If the Willoughbys had been on a party line," remarked Craig as
we strode up Woodridge Avenue trying to look as if it was familiar
to us, "we might have arranged this thing by stratagem. As it is,
we shall have to resort to another method, and perhaps better,
since we shall have to take no one into our confidence."
The avenue was indeed a fine thoroughfare, lined on both sides
with large and often imposing mansions, surrounded with trees and
shrubbery, which served somewhat to screen them. We came at last
to the Willoughby house, a sizable colonial residence set up on a
hill. It was dark, except for one dim light in an upper story. In
the shadow of the hedge, Craig silently vaulted the low fence and
slipped up the terraces, as noiselessly as an Indian, scarcely
crackling a twig or rustling a dead leaf on the ground.
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