As the train, gathering momentum, swept past him, he stared about at the
snow-covered station, the guard, the few people congregated there.
"There's another train at four, isn't there?" he asked an official.
"Four-thirty, express. Yes, sir."
A hackman came up soliciting patronage. Ruthven motioned him to follow,
leading the way to the edge of the platform.
"I don't want to drive to the village. What have you got there, a
sleigh?"
It was the usual Long Island depot-wagon, on runners instead of wheels.
"Do you know the Willow Villa?" demanded Ruthven.
"Wilier Viller, sir? Yes, sir. Step right this way--"
"Wait!" snapped Ruthven. "I asked you if you knew it; I didn't say I
wanted to go there."
The hackman in his woolly greatcoat stared at the little dapper,
smooth-shaven man, who eyed him in return, coolly insolent, lighting a
cigar.
"I don't want to go to the Willow Villa," said Ruthven; "I want you to
drive me past it."
"Sir?"
"_Past_ it. And then turn around and drive back here.
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