The bungalow’s windows were lighted when I passed it on my way uphill. I was tempted to get out of my coupe and do some snooping, but was afraid that I couldn’t out-Indian Marcus on his own grounds, and so went on.
When I turned into the dirt road leading to the vacant house I had spotted on my first trip to Farewell, I switched off the coupe’s lights and crept along by the light of a very white moon overhead.
Close to the vacant house I got the coupe off the path and at least partly hidden by bushes.
Then I went up on the rickety porch, located the bungalow, and began to adjust my field glasses to it.
I had them partly adjusted when the bungalow’s front door opened, letting out a slice of yellow light and two people.
One of the people was a woman.
Another least turn of the setscrew and her face came clear in my eyes— Mrs. Ringgo.
She raised her coat collar around her face and hurried away down the cobbled walk. Sherry stood on the veranda looking after her.
When she reached the road she began running uphill, towards her house.
Sherry went indoors and shut the door.
I took the glasses away from my eyes and looked around for a place where I could sit. The only spot I could find where sitting wouldn’t interfere