Armitage had lifted his hat and passed out, tapping his leg with his
crop.
He walked toward the private houses that lay scattered over the valley
and along the gradual slope of the hills as though carelessly flung from
a dice box. Many of the places were handsome estates, with imposing
houses set amid beautiful gardens. Half a mile from the hotel he stopped
a passing negro to ask who owned a large house that stood well back from
the road. The man answered; he seemed anxious to impart further
information, and Armitage availed himself of the opportunity.
"How near is Judge Claiborne's place?" he asked.
The man pointed. It was the next house, on the right-hand side; and
Armitage smiled to himself and strolled on.
He looked down in a moment upon a pretty estate, distinguished by its
formal garden, but with the broad acres of a practical farm stretching
far out into the valley. The lawn terraces were green, broken only by
plots of spring flowers; the walks were walled in box and privet; the
house, of the pillared colonial type, crowned a series of terraces. A
long pergola, with pillars topped by red urns, curved gradually through
the garden toward the mansion.
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