"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 290 - Death has Grey Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

clothes, who was hurrying out to meet the car. One look at Dick brought a low
but hoarse-toned exclamation from Foxcroft.
"Mr. Dick - don't tell me it's you -"
"Now go on, Foxy old fox," interrupted Dick. "Of course I'm myself and
this gentleman is -"
"Don't tell me his name," broke in the caretaker. "I just want to say
two strangers came by, but didn't stop. If you're going to Bald Knob, sirs" -
Foxcroft raised his voice to a high pitch - "you'll have to go down the hill
again, over the bridge by the flume, and around to your right. Up past the old
dam, you'll find -"
Foxcroft was making an odd series of gesticulations which Dick promptly
interrupted by climbing out of the car. He did some gesturing of his own to
Cranston.
"Swing up in back of the water tank," directed Dick, "and you'll find a
shed that will do for a garage. I'll have a drink when you come down to the
lodge, if Foxcroft hasn't used up all my Scotch, though it sounds like it from
this double-talk he's handed me."
 "But I haven't seen you, Mr. Dick," insisted Foxcroft. "Leastwise I'm
not
going to say so. You and your friend are just two strangers, if you'll only
believe me!"
"Which I won't." Dick was already striding toward the lodge, with
Foxcroft following in helpless fashion. Calling back, Dick added: "I'll be
seeing you later, Mr. Cranston."
Pondering a few moments at the wheel, Cranston decided his best course
was
to take the car to the shed garage. He found it readily amid the gathering
dusk
and stepped to the path from which he could see the ledge below. As he paused
to study the mountain landscape, Cranston heard a rustle in the brush behind
him.
No snake could have been more furtive, but the sound was too ample to be
of reptilian origin, unless this Adirondack region happened to be infested
with
tropical boa constrictors. Another crackle answered from the other side of the
path; this time it was more like a Cooper Indian stepping on a favorite broken
twig.
Snakes or humans, it was good policy to stand one's ground, so Cranston
did, drinking in the gorgeous view as though it alone intrigued him. It was
indeed a rare sight, this mountain setting, the sunset throwing a singular
area
of light upon the broad clearing that fronted Rook's Retreat, while darkness
loomed high above, where a towering summit cut off the glow from the rest of
the mountainside.
Across a lower range, thunder clouds were gathering, grumbling, their
ominous approach with reflected lightning flashes, but the muffled roar wasn't
sufficient to drown the other sound that Cranston heard, the thrumm of an
airplane, its sound difficult to trace.
Then Cranston spotted it, above the near side of the lowering peak. On
the