"Can't we give him a ticket, or something," Amy probed in mock earnestness. "Let him know he can't talk that way to the Feds?"
"Sadly, no," Henry copied her tone. "The best we can do is take his license plate number and turn it over to our diligent friends in the IRS."
They followed the winding, bumpy driveway over a hundred yards through twisted trees and a thick undergrowth of thistles, vines and poison ivy until they came to a clearing hidden from the road above. There, in the middle of it, stood a remarkably well-built, though decaying one-room cabin of gray, weather-proof wood. Mr. Bayley, apparently a skilled carpenter, made additional attempts to beautify the austere structure by adding shutters and a very small roofed porch by the front door.
The agents inspected the outside, fi
