On the way to his appointment with Euphonia Gage he took a detour down MacGregor Road, looking for the cottage where Polly claimed to be living under the watchful eye of her elderly landlord. There were no habitations on this country road — just open fields interspersed with patches of woods. There was no traffic except for one car with a buck tied to the roof. The driver gave Qwilleran a happy grin and a V sign.

Suddenly there was a jog in the road, and the pavement gave way to gravel. A little farther on, two mailboxes on cedar posts marked a long driveway bordered with shrubs. It led to a cluster of buildings: a substantial stone farmhouse, a tiny frame cottage in the rear, some sheds, and a weathered barn sagging limply to the ground. The names on the mailboxes were MacGregor and Duncan.

No car was in sight. No farm machinery. No barking dog. But a goose rounded a comer of the main house and honked in a menacing manner. With extreme caution and with one eye on the bird, Qwilleran stepped out of the car and moved toward the side door of the farmhouse. There was no need to knock. He had already been announced.

"What do you want?" screamed a querulous voice. An old man, frail and stooped, appeared in the doorway, wearing three sweaters and some knitted leg warmers over his trousers.

"Mr. MacGregor? I'm Jim Qwilleran. Just want to ask you a question, sir."

"What are you selling? I don't want to buy anything."

"I'm not a salesman. I'm looking for a hunter who drives a red Jaguar."

"Red what?"

"A red car. Bright red."

"I don't know," the old man said. "I'm color-blind."

"Thank you anyway, Mr. MacGregor. Good day."

Still watching the goose, Qwilleran backed away. He had determined that Polly really lived in a cottage adjoining a farmhouse belonging to an elderly landlord named MacGregor. Satisfied, he drove back to town. The cottage, he remarked, was incredibly small.

At two-thirty he rang the doorbell of a large stone house on Goodwinter Boulevard, to interview the eighty-two-year-old president of the Old Timers Club. The woman who came to the door was the right age, but he doubted that she could do headstands and push-ups.

"Mrs. Gage is in her studio," the woman said. "You can go right in — through the front parlor."

A gloomy cave of dark velvet, heavy carved furniture, and black horsehair upholstery led into a light, bright studio, unfurnished except for two large mirrors and an exercise mat. A little woman in leotard, tights, and leg warmers sat in lotus position on the mat. She rose effortlessly and came forward.

"Mr. Qwilleran! I've heard so much about you from Junior! And of course I've read your column in the Fluxion." Her voice was calm but vibrant. She threw on a baggy knee-length sweater and led him back into the suffocating front parlor.

She was petite but not frail, white haired but smooth skinned.

"I understand you're president of the Old Timers Club," he said.

"Yes, I'm eighty-two. The youngest member is automatically appointed president."

"I suspect you lied about your age."

Her pleased expression acknowledged the compliment. "I intend to live to be a hundred and three. I think a hundred and four would be excessive, don't you? Exercise is the secret, and breathing is the most important factor. Do you know how to breathe, Mr. Qwilleran?"

"I've been doing my best for fifty years."

"Stand up and let me place my hands on your rib cage... Now breathe in ... breathe out... inhale... exhale. You do very well, Mr. Qwilleran, but you might work on it a little more. Now, what can I do for you?"

"I'd like to turn on this tape recorder and ask you some questions about the early days in Moose County."

"I shall be happy to oblige."

The following interview was later transcribed:

Question: When did your ancestors come to Moose County, Mrs. Gage?

My grandfather came here in the mid-nineteenth century, straight out of medical school. He was the first doctor, and he was treated like a blessing from heaven. There were no hospitals or clinics. Everything was primitive. He made house calls on horseback, sometimes ahead of a pack of howling wolves. And once, after a forest fire, when all the trails were impassable, he chopped his way through fifteen miles of debris with an ax in order to treat the survivors. They were burned and mutilated and blinded, and there were no medicines except what he brought in his knapsack.

What kind of medicines did he have?

Grandfather mixed his own and rolled his own pills, using herbs and botanicals like rhubarb powder and arnica and nux vomica. Some of his patients preferred old-fashioned remedies like catnip tea or a good slug of whiskey. They never paid for his services with money. They'd give him two chickens for setting a broken bone or a bushel of apples for delivering a baby.

What kind of cases did he handle?

Everything. Fever, smallpox, lung disease, surgery, dentistry. He pulled teeth with a pair of "twisters." And there were plenty of emergencies caused by spring floods, poisonous snakes, sawmill accidents, kicking mules, saloon brawls. Amputations were very common. I have his collection of saws, knives, and scalpels. .

Why so many amputations?

There were no antibiotics. An infected limb had to be cut off, or the patient would die of blood poisoning. Grandfather talked about performing surgery by candlelight in a log cabin while a member of the family shooed flies away from the open incision. That was over a hundred years ago, you understand. When my father began his practice, conditions had improved. He had an office in our front parlor, and he made house calls in a buggy or sleigh, and he had a full-time driver who lived in the stable and took care of horses. The driver — Zack was his name — later went to work for the Picayune and achieved notoriety by killing Titus Goodwinter.

Do you know the circumstances?

To go back a bit, Zack's father was a miner, blown to bits in an underground explosion. Zack became a bitter and violent man who regularly beat his wife and two children. Father used to patch them up and report it to the constable, but nothing was done about it. Zack's young daughter worked at the Picayune, too, and Titus, who was a flagrant roue, seduced the poor girl. She drowned herself, and Zack went after Titus with a hunting knife. Not a pretty story.

Was the Picayune a good newspaper in its early days?

Well...I'll tell you... if you'll turn that thing off.

End of interview.

After Qwilleran snapped off the tape recorder, Mrs. Gage said, "I can speak to you confidentially because you're a friend of my favorite grandson. Junior speaks highly of you. The truth is: I have never thought well of that branch of the Goodwinter family, nor of the newspaper they published. Ephraim, the founder of the Picayune, was not a journalist. He was a rich mine owner and lumber baron who would do anything for money. It was his avarice and negligence that caused the terrible mine explosion, killing thirty-nine men. Eventually he took his own life. His sons were no better. His grandson, Senior, was a strange one; he was interested only in setting type!" She rolled her eyes in derision.

"Why did your daughter marry him?" Qwilleran asked bluntly, since Euphonia was noted for blunt candor.

"Gritty had always wanted to marry a Goodwinter, and she always did exactly what she wanted. It was a strange match. She's a spirited girl who likes a good time. Senior had no spirit at all and was certainly not my idea of a good time. How they produced Junior, I can't explain. He's too small to be Gritty's offspring — she's such an amazon! — and too smart to be Senior's son."

"Recessive genes," Qwilleran said. "He resembles his grandmother."

"You are a charming man, Mr. Qwilleran. I wish Junior might have had you for a father."