Joe grinned a greeting, and said, "Got you some orange juice in the ice-box."

  Rob motioned that that would come later. He'd take a shower, then have fruit juice and breakfast, but now he wanted cofTee and a chance to relax.

  He sipped the coffee, said to Joe, "I'm going to keep Lobo as a house dog, Joe. I'd like to make him a personal dog. I'll train the others but Lobo will be a companion."

  Joe cupped his hands back of his ears, squinted his eyes with a concentration of effort at hearing, and Rob smiled, waved his hand and said, "Never mind, itfc nothing."

  He walked to the door and inhaled the freshness of the air, looked out over the rolling acres of the countryside, out to the kennels where the dogs were eagerly awaiting their morning schooling, dogs that had been trained to maintain silence unless they had been specifically ordered otherwise.

  Rob opened the doors, strolled out into the back yard, inhaled deeply, then suddenly stiffened to attention as he looked at the circle and the driveway.

  The little car was gone.

  Rob rushed back into the kitchen, put his hand on Joe Colton's shoulder, his mouth close to Joe's ear. "Joe, what happened to the little car?"

  "The one you came home with? It's out there."

  "No, it isnt."

  "What?"

  "I say it isn't out there."

  Joe started for the door, then after the manner of a good cook, turned, carefully drained the grease from the bacon and set the fiying-pan over on the back of the stove. He grabbed his cane, hobbled to the door, and stood looking at the driveway. "Well, I'll be doggoned," he said.

  The two men were silent for a moment.

  "How about the keys?" Joe asked. "Didn't you lock her up?"

  "Sure I locked it up," Rob Trenton said. He went swiftly to his bedroom, searched the pocket of his coat and came back with the keys to the car. "I locked the ignition," he said.

  "Well, she's gone now," Joe told him, and seeing there was nothing for the moment that could be done about the situation he returned to the stove, gave a little shake to the coffee-pot, brought the frying-pan of bacon back over the warm part of the stove and carefully resumed his slow, methodical cooking. "The station wagon's out back of the barn. Anyhow, I hope she is. We'll take a look around as soon's I get this breakfast out of the way."

  Rob Trenton dashed in to put on clothes, then out again to look at tracks. It was difficult to tell much about man tracks because Rob and Joe had made so many tracks the night before in unloading the baggage, but there were tyre tracks going in the driveway and there were tyre tracks going out of the driveway. These last tracks showed unmistakably, that the car had been turned north on the highway, in a direction away from town.

  Trenton returned for breakfast and said, "I'm going to have to notify Linda Carroll. She has all the data on motor number, engine number and all that, and I suppose, of course, the car is insured."

  Joe Colton didn't hear him, but he nodded with that vague agreement which characterises the gesture of a deaf man. "Now you're cooking with gas," he said. "That's the way to handle it."

  CHAPTER NINE

  The city of Falthaven was a typical city boasting a population of 10,000 despite the fact that the census figures insisted 7,134 represented the total citizenry which could officially be rounded up.

  The soft-drink parlour where Rob Trenton asked for directions catered to the bobby-sox crowd. The interior was tilled with the incessant clatter of youthful voices, each voice raised enough to make itself heard above the din of the other voices, which were then in turn raised so as to be heard above the confusion. The result was that Rob Trenton had to lean well across the counter to make certain that he was heard.

  "East Robinson Street?" the waitress said, while she was busy putting scoops of ice-cream on split bananas, covering the mixture with heavy syrups of crushed fruit, whipped cream and nuts. "The best way for you to get there is to go up to the next stop light, then turn right and go five blocks. What number did you want?"

  "Two hundred and five East Robinson Street."

  "Well, when you've gone five blocks, that'll be Robinson Street. Then you turn to your left and it'll be about five or six more blocks."

  "All right," Rob told her, smiling. "1 guess I'll drive through it. Thanks."

  "Don't mention it," she said, spooning thick marshmallow sauce out of the jar. "You won't have any trouble."

  Rob Trenton thanked her, started for the door. "Say," she asked, "what's the name of the party you want? That isn't where Linda Carroll lives, is it?"

  Rob nodded.

  "Well, you won't have any trouble finding it. It's the second house from the corner on the right-hand side. A big two-storey house. She's an artist and she won't answer the telephone, so you'll have to go up and see if she's home. I saw her uptown an hour or so ago ... had some groceries with her. I guess she'll be back by this time."

  Rob found East Robinson Street without difficulty, and following the directions which had been given him, came to the big grey house on the right.

  It was an old-fashioned house evidently dating back to the turn of the century. There was about the place an atmosphere of spaciousness which, while lacking the efficiency of the modern small-spaced cottage, nevertheless was reminiscent of stability and that slower tempo which characterised a bygone era.

  Rob's heart was beating more rapidly than usual as he parked the battered old station wagon, and climbed the wooden stairs to the porch, then pressed his thumb against the bell button.

  He could hear the sounds of musical chimes from the interior of the house.

  There was no other sound from within.

  Rob once more pressed his thumb against the bell button, holding it there for several seconds.

  This time as the sound of the chimes faded away he distinctly heard someone moving in one of the rooms, but no one came to the door.

  Rob felt Linda Carroll would hardly leave him to stand on the front porch, regardless of what she might be doing. She certainly would look through one of the windows to find out who was calling, and when she had learned the identity of her visitor, Rob was sure that he would be admitted. His ears heard a faint sound immediately on the other side of the heavy front door. He had the feeling that he was being carefully scrutinised. Yet nothing else happened. He stood there on the porch until the seconds ripened into a full two minutes. Angry, he rang the chimes twice in rapid succession.

  Suddenly the door burst open.

  A woman in a smock stained with oil colours, red hair in stringy disarray over her ears, glasses perched on a sharp nose over a broad mouth, which might be capable of smiles but which was at the moment a thin line of indignation, glowered at him. She was slender, willowy, angry, and twenty years older than Linda Carroll.

  "What do you mean ... ringing my doorbell four times like that?" she asked in a rapid fire of angry speech. "Can't you see I'm busy? I'd have come to the door if I'd wanted to. I heard you the first time. I'm not deaf. What do you suppose I put those loud chimes on there for? My goodness, you'd think I didn't have anything to do except answer the telephone and the front doorbell. Someone wants to sell something. Someone wants to get charitable donations for a fund. Someone rings up just to see how 1 am ..."

  "I'm sorry," Rob managed to interrupt the tirade. "I want to see Miss Linda Carroll, please, and it's quite important."

  "Of course you want to see Linda Carroll!" the woman stormed. "So does everyone else in town. This is one of those days. I do my shopping early so I can come back and settle down to a little uninterrupted painting, and what happens? The telephone rings, the doorbell rings, and now you come, and you 'want to see Linda Carroll'," she mimicked. "You and two thousand other people in town." "Please," Rob Trenton said, "1 have to see Miss Linda Carroll on a matter of considerable importance."

  The woman tilted her head back so that it seemed her sharp nose was pointed directly at Trenton. Her shrewd eyes studied him carefully. "What's your name?"

  "I'm Rob Trenton. I have just returned from a trip to Europe. I sailed on the same ship with Linda Carroll, both going over and coming back."

  She held the door open and said, "Come on in."

  Rob Trenton entered the house, went through a reception hall and was ushered into a front room which had at one time evidently been a parlour and living-room and which was now fixed up as a studio. There was a half-finished painting on an easel and dozens of other paintings, some in frames, some without frames, scattered around the place, hanging on the walls or simply propped up against the sides of the walls.

  "This is my workshop," she said. "Sit down."

  "I want to see Miss Linda Carroll."

  "I'm Miss Linda Carroll."

  "I'm afraid there's some mistake," Rob said. "I must have the wrong Carroll. Perhaps, however, you can help me out. 1 know that the Linda Carroll 1 want is an artist and lives here in Falthaven."

  The woman shook her head, her lips tightly clamped together, her manner decisive. "You're either trying to spoof me or you're barking up a wrong tree. Now which is it?"

  "The Linda Carroll whom 1 know is about twenty-five years old. She has chestnut hair, hazel eyes, is about five feet five inches tall, and weighs about a hundred and seven teen pounds."

  "You say she's a painter?"

  "That's right."

  "And lives in Falthaven?"

  "Yes ... I happen to know she gave this as her address. It was on her passport."

  The woman slowly shook her head. "I'm Linda Carroll. I'm a painter. 1 live here in Falthaven, and there isn't any other Linda Carroll living here. Now suppose you tell me just what this is all about."

  Rob Trenton, rather dazed, reached for his hat, said, "Well, if there's been a mistake ... I ..."

  "Now just a moment, young man. Don't think you're going to come in here with a story like that and then just gel up and walk out. 1 want to know what it's all about."

  "I'm afraid that the matter 1 have in mind is private and something which has to be discussed with the young woman in question."

  "Now, I don't know what this is all about, but I don't like the way you come in here and tell your story. Apparently someone's been impersonating me and I want to know all about it. Why are you so anxious to see this woman? What's it all about? What makes you in such a rush?"

  "Miss Carroll," Rob Trenton said with dignity, "let me have ... that is, she loaned me an automobile and it's been stolen."

  "Gave you an automobile "

  "No, loaned it to me."

  "Well, make up your mind which it was. You said first she gave it to you, then you said she loaned it to you."

  "1 beg your pardon. I may have said she let me have it. I certainly didn't say she gave it to me, and since you're not the woman 1 have in mind ..."

  "Now don't try to back up," she interrupted. "Someone's been impersonating me, and I s'pose I should go to the police. However, I'll let you tell me the whole story so I can judge what I'm going to do.

  "Now you just go right ahead, young man, and tell me the whole thing right from the start. How'd you meet this woman, anyway?"

  "It's rather a long story."

  "Well, I should think it would be. And what's happened to the automobile?"

  "1 don't know. It was stolen from my place last night."

  "You reported the theft to the police?"

  "No, not yet."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, I ... I thought 1 should see her first and 1 haven't the data on the car, the serial number or ... well, it would all sound rather strange to go to the police with a story the way it is now. I'd like to have some details clarified before I report it."

  "I should think you would want to have things clarified. It sounds terribly fuzzy to me. If someone's been impersonating me I want to know it."

  "No one was impersonating you," Rob Trenton said. "I simply have to find the Linda Carroll who was on the ship with me. There must have been some mistake in the address. Certainly this city isn't so big but what ..."

  "Well, I can tell you that it's small enough so I'd know if there was any other Linda Carroll in town, and particularly if she were a painter. Either someone's been spoofing you, or you're trying to spoof me!"

  Despite the fact that words and voice were sharp, there was a certain twinkling kindliness about her eyes.

  Rob Trenton tried to keep his voice sufficiently under control so that it would not show undue interest. "May 1 ask if you have a passport?" he asked.

  "Of course I have a passport. What does that have to do with it?"

  "I just wondered. Perhaps your passpon has been stolen."

  "No, it hasn't." "Have you looked for it recently?"

  "I'm telling you my passport hasn't been stolen. Now that's all there is to that. You don't need to start trying to cross-examine me, young man. The shoe should be on the other foot."

  "I'm not trying to cross-examine you," Trenton said. "Quite evidently you feel someone was using your name, and in view of the fact that it takes a passport to get anywhere at all in Europe, I'm quite certain the passport must have had your name on it."

  "And my photograph?"

  "I don't know. I didn't see the photograph."

  "Well, no one has taken my passport, I can assure you of that."

  "Would you mind giving me definite assurance?"

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Showing me your passport. I have a very firm conviction that you'll find the passport is missing."

  "Nonsense!"

  "Well, will you at least please look for it?"

  She hesitated a moment, then said, "All right. You sit right there. Don't move out of that chair. Don't go snooping around. I don't like to have people prowling around here."

  Rob smiled. "All right. I'll promise. You go and look for your passport and I think you'll be surprised."

  She left the room, was gone two or three minutes then came back and triumphantly pushed a green-backed folder under Rob Trenton's nose. "Perhaps you'd like to look at it yourself."

  So firmly had Trenton become convinced the girl he knew as Linda Carroll had been using the passport of this woman he could hardly conceal his surprise.

  He took the passport and thumbed through the pages. There was no question that this was the passport of Linda Carroll of Falthaven, and that it had not been tampered with. The photograph in the front of the passport was undoubtedly that of the woman who was standing in front of him and could not, by any possibility, have been the photograph of the woman whom he had known as Linda Carroll.

  "Satisfied?" she asked at length.

  Robert Trenton handed the passport back to her.

  She saw the expression in his eyes and suddenly softened. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm afraid someone has victimised you. Now suppose you tell me exactly what's wrong?"

  Rob Trenton shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't tell you any of it."

  "You said something about an automobile?"

  "My story sounds absolutely incredible," Rob said. "I need time to think it over. I ... I'm very sorry that I intruded on you. Miss Carroll, and I hope I haven't been too much of a nuisance."

  She placed a sympathetic hand on his arm. "Now don't you be all upset," she said in a motherly manner. "You met this woman who said she was Linda Carroll... and what happened?"

  Rob just shook his head, dumbly.

  "I want you to tell me."

  Trenton said, "There is nothing to tell. The whole thing is beyond my comprehension. I'm sorry ... you'll excuse me."

  He started for the door.

  She followed him, again took his arm. "I think you'd better tell me," she said. "What is it? Did you fall in love?"

  Rob didn't answer, and the woman with the sharp nose and the glasses stood in the doorway watching him as he walked dejectedly down the wooden steps to the sidewalk, walked to the battered, decrepit station wagon and climbed in.

  Then, as he started the car, she quietly closed the door, her face wearing a thoughtful, puzzled frown.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Five blocks from the big frame house of Linda Carroll, the station wagon suddenly clattered into organised sounds of metallic distress and stopped abruptly. Rob Trenton tried to make an inspection. It seemed that something had torn loose in the differential and had stripped gears, then locked the whole driving mechanism. A garage with a tow car finally removed the station wagon and left Trenton with no alternative to return by bus.

  He ate lunch at a little restaurant in the bus station.

  A few minutes before the bus was due he walked down the street to the drugstore, called State Police Headquarters, failed to give his name, and reported the Rapidex sedan as having been stolen. He hung up in the middle of the conversation before embarrassing questions could be asked and then went back to the bus station.

  A thin, nervous man who stood by the gate kept looking at his watch. He finally engaged Trenton in conversation. "Seems like that bus will never get here. Is that time right?"

  He indicated a clock on the wall.

  "That's the right time," Rob said, consulting his watch.

  The man said irritably, "I'm doing a contracting job in Noonville. I have to get there. What I can't understand is what happened to the other fellows who are working on the job with me. They were supposed to show up in their car twenty minutes ago. 1 told them if they didn't get here I'd take a bus ... hang it, it's irritating."

  Rob Trenton was in no particular mood to take on anyone else's troubles. He merely nodded.

  A car drove up and the door opened. A squat, broad-shouldered man in overalls and jumper, a disarming grin on his face, pushed his way towards the gate. "Hello, Sam."

  The nervous man whirled round. There was relief on his face. "Gosh, it's about time you got here. We're going to be late."

  "We can make it," the man said, and then added, "We had a blowout but it's okay now. It's a good thing we fixed it. The bus is half an hour late."

  "Half an hour late?"

  "That's the report we got. Come on, let's go."

  The man turned to Rob Trenton apologetically. "You heard what my friend said? The bus is half an hour late. We're going to Noonville, if you're going in that direction."