The Roadside Inn at Riverdell sprawls its white length along the old
post-road over which many years ago the coaches swayed and rattled
between New York and Boston. The Roadside, known in those days as
Peppit’s Tavern, has changed but little. The front room over the porch,
has held notable guests: Washington, Hancock, Adams, Lafayette and many
more. On the tap-room windows you may still find the diamond-etched
initials of by-gone celebrities. And much of the old-time atmosphere
remains.
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The room into which Ethan had his bag taken after his return from his
adventure in Arcady was low-ceilinged and dim. The two small windows,
one overlooking the dilapidated orchard at the rear and the little
river beyond, the other revealing the murmuring depths of a big elm,
afforded little light. The floor was delightfully uneven; Ethan went
downhill to the washstand and uphill again to the old mahogany bureau.
The wide fire-place held a pair of antique andirons coveted by many
a visitor, and the narrow shelf above was adorned with an equally
desirable brass candlestick and a couple of opaque white glass vases
which, ancient as they were, post-dated the shelf itself by half a
hundred years. The bedstead, of mahogany, with rolling footboard, had
made concessions to modernity. The pegs along the side, from which
ropes had once been stretched, remained, but an up-to-date wire spring
and hair mattress had superseded the olden furnishings.
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Ethan lighted a cigarette, unstrapped his bag and took out a leathern
portfolio. With this on his knee, he sat at one of the open windows and
scrawled a note.
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“Dear Vin, I am sending my man Farrell on to you with the
machine with orders to place it at your disposal. Make what use
you can of it. I think it is all right now, though it went back
on us this morning about two miles north of here. Funny place
for it to bust, wasn’t it; looks as though it meant me to pay
a visit here, eh? Well, I’m humoring it. I’ve decided to stay
here for a day or two at the Roadside. I want to brush up a bit
on mythology. Very interesting subject, mythology, Vin. Just
when I’ll follow the machine I can’t say yet; possibly in a
day or two. Make my excuses to your mother and sisters; invent
any old story you like. You might say, for instance, that
Vertumnus, fickle god, has transferred his affections from
Pomona to a water-nymph. But you needn’t if you’d rather not. I
don’t care what you say. Expect me when you see me.
“Yours,
“ETHAN.”
With a smile as he thought of his friend’s perplexity on reading the
note, Ethan folded it and tucked it into an envelope. Then addressing
it to “Mr. Vincent Graves, The Boulders, Stillhaven, Mass.,” he sealed
it, dropped it into his pocket and made his way downstairs to dinner.
After dinner a big blue touring-car chugged its way southward along the
shaded road, with Farrell at the wheel and Ethan’s note in Farrell’s
pocket. Ethan watched it disappear. Then, drawing a chair to the edge
of the porch, he set himself in it, put his heels on the railing,
stuffed his hands into his pockets and asked himself with a puzzled
smile why he had done it.