The Hopeless Defense of Mrs. Dellford

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The New York lawyer got off the train and looked around him doubtfully. A dangling sign at the upper end of the station-platform said New Cordoba. He had to wait for the train to clear out of the way before he could even see what the place was like. It seemed to have stubbornly confined itself to one side of the tracks only. And two day-coaches were enough to cover it up from end to end.

His name was Larry Brett and he’d never been any farther out in the country than Van Cortlandt Park in his entire thirty years. He didn’t seem to think he’d been missing much, to judge by his expression.

He crossed the two pairs of tracks and accosted an idler sitting with legs dangling down off the side of a loading platform. “Hey, Activity. Which way to the Constable’s office?”

The lounger swiveled around rearwards on the point of one elbow and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “See that white frame house down there? Well, that’s her.”

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