Hayden smiled dolfully.
"They handled me last night," he said ruefully. "I'm a pretty strong man, but something held me as helpless as a baby."
Burke alighted at a lonely way-station, standing on a strip of land between a wide marsh and the Hudson.
The marsh ran to the foot of the mountains, and lay sear and rippling in the September breeze. Hayden had stated that the dwellings stood back in the hills, a distance of some five miles. On Burke's suggestion, they started to walk. Burke wanted to study the country, and, incidently, study his companion.
The country he found to be sparsely settled. The road wound up through forest-clad rocky hills. The dwelling stood beside a wide stretch of woods, with cleared fields to the north.
Burke scanned the dwelling as he approached it, and found it to be the usual type of farm house of a century ago, buried among dead trees.
The interior of the house was in keeping with the exterior. Oval frames held old prints, horse-hair upholstered, massive dark furniture contrasted with tables and stands covered with white marble tops, the chairs squatted grimly in the quiet rooms and rested on dull rag carpets. The woman and her daughter struck Burke like beings transported from the misty past.
The mother was a tall, sparse woman, with heavy black rings about the eyes. The eyes, black and dreamy, held Burke with a steady, unwinking stare. The daughter was the opposite of her dark, sallow mother. She seemed a lifeless, colorless sprite, seemingly alive by the power and vigor of her more intense mother. She was about twenty years of age, although her chalky face, and thin, bloodless hands, together with her slight frame and indolent movements, seemed to signify an older age, or some wasting disease. Both were of the dreaming, musing type, speaking softly and briefly, and moving silently about the quiet house, and both were garbed in dresses of white material.
Burke's first act was to visit the room upstairs. There was nothing to warrant his attention except the stained floor. He ripped up several splinters and put them in his pocket. He then announced his intention of visiting the nearest town, several miles to the south.
Hayden asked no questions, evidently placing the affair entirely in Burke's hands. He remarked that he would "walk down a ways" with the detective, and await his return.
The two women were still unaware of Burke's vocation, and accepted without comment Hayden's statement that Burke was a friend that was to remain over night.
As soon as Burke arrived in town, he went at once to the Chief of Police. Here he inquired for some one qualified to make an examination of the blood-stained splinters. He was directed to a doctor who maintained a laboratory. The latter, after a lengthy analysis, confessed himself puzzled. Something was missing in the composition. He could not account for the peculiar results he obtained. It was human blood—and yet it was not.
Burke returned to the Chief of Police and inquired about the Haydens. The Chief was unable to give Burke any satisfaction, but directed him to an old settler in the vicinity who could probably furnish the desired information.
Burke found the family without trouble. They were willing to talk, but they knew very little about the Haydens—though a good deal about the house.
Over a hundred years before, they said, a widow and her niece had lived in the then new dwelling. The place, a flourishing farm, which had since been cut up and sold off, was managed by the woman's step-brother. The family were more or less secluded, and seldom seen.
In the course of weeks it was noticed that no one had seen the two women. The brother was at the house alone, and refused to talk. This led to an investigation. No trace of the women was found. The brother was never brought to trial, continued to live on the place until he died of old age, and had
