Lost Man’s Lane

and everything went on as before, till suddenly public attention was again aroused by the pouring in of letters containing inquiries in regard to a young man who had been sent there from Duluth to collect facts in a law case, and who after a certain date had failed to communicate with his firm or show up at any of the places where he was known. Instantly the village was in arms. Many remembered the young man, and some two or three of the villagers could recall the fact of having seen him go up the street with his handbag in his hand as if on his way to the Mountain-station. The landlord of the hotel could fix the very day at which he left his house, but inquiries at the station failed to establish the fact that he took train from there, nor were the most minute inquiries into his fate ever attended by the least result. He was not known to have carried much money, but he carried a very handsome watch and wore a ring of more than ordinary value, neither of which has ever shown up at any pawnbroker’s known to the police. This was three years ago.

“The next occurrence of a like character did not take place till a year after. This time it was a poor old man from Hartford, who vanished almost as it were before the eyes of these astounded villagers. He had come to town to get subscriptions for a valuable book issued by a well-known publisher. He had been more or less successful, and was looking very cheerful and contented, when one morning, after making a sale at a certain farmhouse, he sat down to dine with the family, it being close on to noon. He had eaten several mouthfuls and was chatting quite freely, when suddenly they saw him pause, clap his hand to his pocket, and rise up very much disturbed. ‘I have left my pocketbook behind me at Deacon Spear’s,’ he cried. ‘I cannot eat with it out of my possession. Excuse me if I go for it.’ And without any further apologies, he ran out of the house and down the road in the direction of Deacon Spear’s. He never reached Deacon Spear’s, nor was he ever seen in that village again or in his home in Hartford. This was the most astonishing mystery of all. Within a half-mile’s radius, in a populous country town, this man disappeared as if the road had swallowed him and closed again. It was marvellous, it was incredible, and remained so even after the best efforts of the country police to solve the mystery had exhausted themselves. After this, the town began to acquire a bad name, and one or two families moved away. Yet no one was found who was willing to admit that these various persons had been the victims of foul play till a month later another case came to light of a young man who had left the village for the hillside station, and had never arrived at that or any other destination so far as could be learned. As he was a distant relative of a wealthy cattle owner in Iowa, who came on posthaste to inquire into his nephew’s fate, the excitement ran high, and through his efforts and that of one of the town’s leading citizens, the services of our office were called into play. But the result has been nil. We have found neither the bodies of these men nor any clue to their fate.”

“Yet you have been there?” I suggested.

He nodded.

“Wonderful! And you came upon no suspicious house, no suspicious person?”

The finger with which he was rubbing his eyeglasses went round and round the rims with a slower and slower and still more thoughtful motion.

“Every town has its suspicious-looking houses,” he slowly remarked, “and, as for persons, the most honest often wear a lowering look in which an unbridled imagination can see guilt. I never trust to appearances of that kind.”

“What else can you trust in, when a case is as impenetrable as this one?” I asked.

His finger, going slower and slower, suddenly stopped.

“In my knowledge of persons,” he replied. “In my knowledge of their fears, their hopes, and their individual concerns. If I were twenty years younger”⁠—here he stole a glance at me in the mirror which made me bridle; did he think I was only twenty years younger than himself?⁠—“I would,” he went on, “make myself so acquainted with every man, woman, and child there, that⁠—” Here he drew himself up with a jerk. “But the day for that is passed,” said he. “I am too old and too crippled to succeed in such an undertaking. Having been there once, I am a marked man. My very walk betrays me. He whose good fortune it will be to get at the bottom of these people’s hearts must awaken no suspicions as to his connection with the police. Indeed, I do not think that any man can succeed in doing this now.”

I started. This was a frank showing of his hand at least. No man! It was then a woman’s aid he was after. I laughed as I thought of it. I had not thought him either so presumptuous or so appreciative of talents of a character so directly in line with his own.

“Don’t you agree with me, madam?”

I did agree with him; but I had a character of great dignity to maintain, so I simply surveyed him with an air of well-tempered severity.

“I do not know of any woman who would undertake such a task,” I calmly observed.

“No?” he smiled with that air of forbearance which is so exasperating to me. “Well, perhaps there isn’t any such woman to be found. It would take one of very uncommon characteristics, I own.”

“Pish!” I cried. “Not so very!”

“Indeed, I think you have not fully taken in the case,” he urged in quiet superiority. “The people there are of the higher order