Arrow Pointing Nowhere by Elizabeth Daly

any view of the hillside. At first lights blinked from invisible dwellings, then dusk invaded the lane. Harold got out his torch.
    They ploughed on and up in silence. At last Harold’s torch showed a thinning of trees, and beyond them a ravine; the road curved to the left and forked.
    â€œWe’ll try the left branch,” said Gamadge. “The other one probably goes straight on to the Albany Road.”
    The left branch looked like a private way. It led them, between thickly planted trees, to the untrodden wastes of lawn and garden; no path was distinguishable. They found a route among trees to a semicircular driveway, and stood looking up at the tall front of a brick house painted gray. Pointed trees crowded behind it, and no light showed.
    â€œSo this is Fenbrook?” Harold spoke in muted tones, without pleasure.
    â€œIt must be; anyhow, I see brackets.” Gamadge surveyed the square porch and its ornamental woodwork. “It’s terrible.”
    â€œThink so? It’s the other chromo— Life in The Country . It needs lighted windows.”
    â€œWe’ll never see lights in these windows. The people in there all froze to death a week ago.”
    But Gamadge mounted two steps and rang an old-fashioned bell. Presently the fanlight and sidelights of the gray door showed yellow, and the door opened. A cheerful-looking fat woman in a cardigan sweater peeped out.
    â€œIs Mr. Mott Fenway at home?” asked Gamadge.
    â€œOh dear! The family’s in New York, sir.” The fat woman looked at Gamadge’s galoshes, and then past him for a conveyance.
    She said: “I’m afraid you’ve had your walk for nothing.”
    â€œAnd what a walk.”
    â€œYou didn’t come up from Rockliffe station, sir? Oh dear.”
    â€œI’m afraid Sergeant Bantz and I have been rather stupid, Mrs.—this is Mrs. Dobson?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œOf course I’ve heard of you; my name’s Hendrix, and I promised Mr. Mott Fenway that I’d drop in sometime when I was in the neighborhood. I happened to be more or less in the neighborhood, and the sergeant is bound for the Oaktree Inn. He thinks it’s open.”
    â€œOh yes, sir; and it’s only half a mile down the road.”
    â€œWe found ourselves on Rockliffe Station, which is no place at present to wait for a train. Of course we realize now that we ought to have waited and got out at the next stop, and taxied back. I thought the sergeant might be allowed to telephone for a taxi here, but now I’ll call one for us both, if you’ll allow me. I’ll go on to New York.”
    Mrs. Dobson looked distressed. “Please come in, and the sergeant too. Miss Grove is here—she’ll want to see any friend of the family.”
    They entered a high, square lobby panelled in red mahogany.
    Stairs rose from it, and some distance beyond it a swing-door was propped open. A delicious odor of ham frying filled the hall.
    Mrs. Dobson closed the front door. “Please excuse the smell of cooking,” she said. “I keep the back doors open to warm the front for Miss Grove. We’re saving heat while the family’s away. If you’ll just lay your things on that bench, I’ll light the fire in the drawing room.”
    â€œDon’t bother, Mrs. Dobson.”
    â€œIt’s no bother, sir. I’d be lighting it in a minute or so for Miss Grove.”
    She went into a room on the right, and turned on a lamp. By the time they had got out of their coats and removed their overshoes a fire was blazing. They entered a big room, also panelled in red mahogany. Mrs. Dobson invited them to the hearth.
    â€œYou must be frozen,” she said, with a fond glance at Harold’s uniform, “and half dead from that climb. Did you say Mr. Mott Fenway, sir?”
    â€œI’m the son of an old Harvard friend of his.”
    â€œAnd what a lovely gentleman he is. He used to pelt