A short man with a battered suitcase slipped into the Cumberville Inn and waited silently at the reception desk. When he finally stirred, Miss Prindle, the inn's owner, nearly fell off her seat. For all she knew, he could have been standing there an hour, blinking behind his huge black-rimmed glasses. Quiet as a mouse on moss, she thought. Maybe he's a mute. He wore a dusty medical jacket and a green wool cap rolled down to his bushy brows. His hairy arm reached over her desk and signed the register while she fiddled with her bracelet charms. She pushed the room key across her desk and sat back with her shoulders against the wall. Without a word, he turned, picked at the rear of his pants, and hurried up the stairs.