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The Blue Lights: A Detective Story
The Blue Lights: A Detective Story
CHAPTER I
THE big, mud-spattered touring car, which for the past hour had been plowing its way steadily northward from the city of Washington, hesitated for a moment before the gateway which marked the end of the well kept drive, then swept on to the house.
A man, stoutly built, keen of eye, showing haste in his every movement, sprang from the machine and ascended the veranda steps.
"Does Richard Duvall live here?" he inquired, curtly, of the smiling old colored woman who came to the door.
"'Deed he do, suh. Does you want to see him?"
"Yes. At once, please. Tell him it is most important. My name is Hodgman."
The servant eyed him with cool disfavor. "Set down, suh," she remarked stiffly. "I'll tell him you is here."
The caller watched her, as she disappeared into the house, then cast himself impatiently into a chair and lit a cigar.
He paid no attention to the attempts of two clumsy collie puppies to attract his favorable notice, but contented himself with making a quick survey of the wide comfortable veranda, with its big roomy chairs, the wicker table, bearing a great jar of red peonies, the smooth green lawns, swept by the late afternoon sun.
"Fine old place," he muttered to himself. "Wonder if I can persuade him to go?"
As the car which had brought Mr. Hodgman on his hasty trip from Washington dashed up to the front of the house, Grace Duvall, looking very charming in a blue linen dress, was just approaching it from the rear.