IT was a little adobe hut with white walls and a sagging thatch roof, at the outskirts of the town, a little away from the rest of the houses. Alone and forlorn with the thick brush growing up around it hungrily. It looked deserted. There was no ray of light from the blackened windows in its thick walls.
Sue Carlyle’s voice was thin with foreboding. “There was a light when I left. My uncle had a candle.”
“He might have blown it out,” Poco said comfortingly.
“No. No, he’d leave it for me. He was worried about me going out alone.”
“Wait here, then,” Kelly said.
He left her in the shadow of the scrub brush and went quietly toward the little house, moving as noiselessly as the drift of a shadow. At one of the sunken front windows he tried to peer in. There was no covering across the windo
