Matthews had a headache.  He’d been getting them a lot lately, and nothing seemed to help.  He rubbed his head and sighed.  Thomas looked over sympathetically from the driver’s seat.  “I have some aspirin if you need it,” he said.

“Already took some,” answered Matthews shortly.  He didn’t want to talk.  He didn’t even want to be here.  He liked Thomas, but the man talked incessantly.  Mostly he had nothing to say, but he said it anyway.  They had met back in Boston a couple of years ago, when Thomas needed a private detective.  He paid well and the work was easy, so Matthews had kept the connection. 

“You know, you’ve had a headache ever since you got down here,” Thomas commented.  Matthews grunted.  At times like this he hated the man.  Thomas had picked him up at the Old Inn and had talked the whole way to his house. Now he was going to be sympathetic and talk some more.  Useless, trivial prattle would pour from his lips like dripping water, bouncing off Matthews’ brain until he thought he would go mad, and all he really wanted him to do was just shut up, for God’s sake!

The abrupt silence brought his eyes open, and he realized suddenly that he had said that last bit out loud.  Thomas was staring at him with his mouth wide open.  He shut it and turned back to the road, pulling the car over to check the mailbox.  “Sorry then,” he said stiffly, and got out of the car. 

Matthews sighed and got out himself.  “Look, this headache is beastly.  You go on and check the house.  I’m going to see if I can walk this off.  Maybe the air will help.  I want to check the woods anyway, see if the places marked in the paintings are really there.  I’ll meet you shortly.”  That was ghastly, he thought as he walked towards the woods.  What possessed him to act like that?  He hated it when he acted like that.

Thomas rifled through the mail and threw it on the seat.  He reached in and retrieved a cigar, and leaned against the mailbox as he smoked.  He was a little worried about Matthews.  The guy was always rather curt, but he didn’t blow up.  That must be some headache, he thought.  A car pulled up next to his, and he looked up to see the constable.  He threw the cigar away and walked over to talk to him.