"Are you Mr. Herold's son?" inquired the young man.

"Yes, sir," almost sullenly.

"How old are you?"

"Eleven."

"You're a big boy, all right. I have never seen your father. He is at
the clubhouse, no doubt."

"Yes, sir," scarcely audible.

"And you and he live there all alone, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir." A moment later the boy added jerkily, "And my sister," as
though truth had given him a sudden nudge.

"Oh, you have a sister, too?"

"Yes, sir."

"That makes it very jolly for you, I fancy," said Marche pleasantly.
There was no reply to the indirect question.

His pipe had gone out again, and he knocked the ashes from it and
pocketed it. For a while they drove on in silence, then Marche peered
impatiently through the darkness, right and left, in an effort to see;
and gave it up.

"You must know this road pretty well to be able to keep it," he said.
"As for me, I can't see anything except a dirty little gray star up
aloft."

"The horse knows the road."

"I'm glad of that. Have you any idea how near we are to the house?"

"Half a mile. That's Rattler Creek, yonder."

"How the dickens can you tell?" asked Marche curiously. "You can't see
anything in the dark, can you?"