Beatrice whispered as they disappeared into the canopy of the trees again. “God, I hate this,” she added with a shiver as she studied the thick branches of the trees that seemed to loom menacingly over the driveway. “Either he does not wish to be seen – identified - or that wasn’t Richard Browning upstairs.” “It’s Browning’s house,” she argued. “Yes, but we don’t know who lives there, do we?” Ben argued. “I mean, how do we know that was not Sigmund Hargraves looking out of the window?” “Whoever it is in there, if they want the plant, why didn’t they just talk to us? They could have taken the opportunity to argue that the plant is theirs,” Beatrice muttered thoughtfully and shook her head. “I don’t believe it was Hargraves.” Ben sighed and struggled to withhold the curse of frustration that hovered on his lips. “I know. I think it was Browning too. We just don’t know for definite.” “If it was Browning, why wouldn’t he speak to us? He didn’t even know who we are.”
