The Blue Lights. Frederic Arnold Kummer

      CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

      THE big, mud-spattered touring car, which for the past hour had been plowing its way steadily northward from the city of Washington, hesitated for a moment before the gateway which marked the end of the well kept drive, then swept on to the house.

      A man, stoutly built, keen of eye, showing haste in his every movement, sprang from the machine and ascended the veranda steps.

      "Does Richard Duvall live here?" he inquired, curtly, of the smiling old colored woman who came to the door.

      "'Deed he do, suh. Does you want to see him?"

      "Yes. At once, please. Tell him it is most important. My name is Hodgman."

      The servant eyed him with cool disfavor. "Set down, suh," she remarked stiffly. "I'll tell him you is here."

      The caller watched her, as she disappeared into the house, then cast himself impatiently into a chair and lit a cigar.

      He paid no attention to the attempts of two clumsy collie puppies to attract his favorable notice, but contented himself with making a quick survey of the wide comfortable veranda, with its big roomy chairs, the wicker table, bearing a great jar of red peonies, the smooth green lawns, swept by the late afternoon sun.

      "Fine old place," he muttered to himself. "Wonder if I can persuade him to go?"

      As the car which had brought Mr. Hodgman on his hasty trip from Washington dashed up to the front of the house, Grace Duvall, looking very charming in a blue linen dress, was just approaching it from the rear.

      She held a pair of shears in her hand, and her apron was filled to overflowing with hundred-leaf roses. "Dick--oh, Dick!" she called, as she came down the long avenue of syringas and lilacs which led to the house. "The sweet peas are nearly ready to bloom."

      Richard Duvall, looking as simply pastoral as though he had never tracked an international crook to cover, raised his head from the flower bed, in which he had been carefully setting out circle after circle of geranium plants.

      "Are they?" he laughed. "That's good. Now all we need is a few good hot days." He gathered up his trowel and rake, and started toward the barn.

      Grace put her arm through her husband's and together they strolled across the springy green turf, their faces smiling and happy. The honeymoon showed no signs of waning.

      This lovely old country place, in southern Maryland, had been one of Richard Duvall's dreams for many years, and after his marriage to Grace Ellicott, in Paris, it had become hers, as well. It was but a short time after their return to America that they decided to make it a reality.

      Grace had encouraged her husband in the plan of giving up, for a time at least, his warfare against crime, his pursuit of criminals of the higher and more dangerous type, and had persuaded him to buy the farm which had once belonged to his mother's people, and settle down to the life of a country gentleman.

      His office was still maintained, under the able direction of one of his assistants, but Duvall gave little or no attention to its affairs. He was glad to withdraw, for the first time in over nine years, from active work, and devote his energies to early potatoes, prize dogs, hunters, and geranium plants --and, above all, to the peaceful enjoyment of his honeymoon, and the making of Grace the happiest woman in the world.

      She, on her part, found in their present situation all the joys of existence for which she had longed. With little or no liking for the monotonous round of society and its duties, and a passionate love of nature, she found in the many and complex duties of managing her part of their extensive estate a far greater happiness than any which

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