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It was from New York but on the back it carried a large dab of sealing wax, impressed with a crown-shaped seal. And here was another envelope that resembled ones which the postman had seen before. One was a long envelope that bore an English stamp, with the postmark “London.” It wasn't the first letter that Treblaw had received from England. Whistling to keep up his spirits, he began to count over the letters in his hands. Then, with an air of bravado, he tapped with the big brass knocker that hung on the front door. The postman shuddered as he reached the front of the gloomy building, with its cracked stone walls. Funny, the carrier thought, how it always seemed like eyes were watching from that house. The place was spooky all right, even in daylight. His fists tightened a bit as he entered the grounds.

He stopped at the long walk that led up to the old house. Worth plenty of money, Treblaw was, even if he did seem goofy, living in an old mansion that looked like a haunted house. The name suited for if anyone looked foxy, Stanton Treblaw was the man. The postman chuckled as he thought of it.

“Foxy Grandpa!” That was the nickname the town boys had given Treblaw. Musing as he strode along, the mailman recalled Stanton Treblaw as a white-haired

That was the carrier's opinion, despite the fact that he had seldom met Treblaw in person. He checked them to make sure all were addressed to Stanton Treblaw. Pacing along a gravel sidewalk, the mail carrier thrust his hand into the bag and produced a half dozen letters. He was wondering if he would make the return trip before new rain commenced. One more call then he could head back for the post office. His route had taken him completely through Droverton. The morning letter carrier shouldered his nearly emptied sack and glowered up at the threatening sky. The hillside town of Droverton was blanketed beneath a gloomy pall of mist. Brooding clouds hung low over the New Jersey countryside, threatening to add new deluge to downpours that had fallen in the night. A MESSAGE OF MOMENT IT was a dull, sullen morning. THE TRIPLE TRAIL Maxwell Grant This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.

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