It was a place
for joy-riders. There was a cabaret, a hall for public dancing, and
rooms for very private suppers.
In so far as it welcomed only those who could spend money it was
exclusive, but in all other respects its reputation was of the worst. In
situation it was lonely, and from other houses separated by a quarter of
a mile of dying trees and vacant lots.
The Boston Post Road upon which it faced was the old post road, but
lately, through this back yard and dumping-ground of the city, had been
relaid. It was patrolled only and infrequently by bicycle policemen.
"But this," continued the detective eagerly, "is where we win out. The
road-house is an old farmhouse built over, with the barns changed into
garages. They stand on the edge of a wood. It's about as big as a city
block. If we come in through the woods from the rear, the garages will
hide us. Nobody in the house can see us, but we won't be a hundred yards
away. You've only to blow a police whistle and we'll be with you."
"You mean I ought to go?" said Wharton.
Rumson exclaimed incredulously:
"You _got_ to go!"
"It looks to me," objected Bissell, "like a plot to get you there alone
and rap you on the head.
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