Part 33 (1/2)

The sodden remains of many letters he withdrew and tried to read, but the sc.r.a.ps gave no tangible result, and he was just about to relinquish his search when his eye caught a sc.r.a.p of bright blue notepaper of a familiar hue. It was half burned, and blurred by the rain, but at the corner he recognised some embossing in dark blue--familiar embossing it was--of part of the address in Hill Street!

The paper was that used habitually by Enid Orlebar, and upon it was a date, two months before, and the single word ”over” in her familiar handwriting.

He took his stout walking-stick, in reality a sword-case, and frantically searched for other sc.r.a.ps, but could find none. One tiny portion only had been preserved from the flames--paraffin having been poured over the heap to render it the more inflammable. But that sc.r.a.p in itself was sufficient proof that Enid had written to the mysterious tenant of The Yews.

”Well,” he said at last, approaching the sergeant, ”do you think the coast is clear enough?”

”For what?”

”To get a glimpse inside. There's a good deal more mystery here than we imagine, depend upon it!” Walter exclaimed.

”Master and man will return by the same train, I expect, unless they come back in a motor-car. If they come by train they won't be here till well past eight, so we'll have at least three hours by ourselves.”

Walter Fetherston glanced around. Twilight was fast falling.

”It'll be dark inside, but I've brought my electric torch,” he said.

”There's a kitchen window with an ordinary latch.”

”That's no use. There are iron bars,” declared the sergeant. ”I examined it the other day. The small staircase window at the side is the best means of entry.” And he took the novelist round and showed him a long narrow window about five feet from the ground.

Walter's one thought was of Enid. Why had she written to that mysterious foreigner? Why had she visited there? Why, indeed, was she back in England surrept.i.tiously, and in that neighbourhood?

The short winter's afternoon was nearly at an end as they stood contemplating the window prior to breaking in--for Walter Fetherston felt justified in breaking the law in order to examine the interior of that place.

In the dark branches of the trees the wind whistled mournfully, and the scudding clouds were precursory of rain.

”Great Scott!” exclaimed Walter. ”This isn't a particularly cheerful abode, is it, sergeant?”

”No, sir, if I lived 'ere I'd have the blues in a week,” laughed the man.

”I can't think 'ow Mr. Bailey employs 'is time.”

”Poultry-farming,” laughed Fetherston, as, standing on tiptoe, he examined the window-latch by flas.h.i.+ng on the electric torch.

”No good!” he declared. ”There's a shutter covered with new sheet-iron behind.”

”It doesn't show through the curtain,” exclaimed Deacon.

”But it's there. Our friend is evidently afraid of burglars.”

From window to window they pa.s.sed, but the mystery was considerably increased by the discovery that at each of those on the ground floor were iron-faced shutters, though so placed as not to be noticeable behind the windows, which were entirely covered with cheap curtain muslin.

”That's funny!” exclaimed the sergeant. ”I've never examined them with a light before.”

”They have all been newly strengthened,” declared Fetherston. ”On the other side I expect there are strips of steel placed lattice-wise, a favourite device of foreigners. Mr. Bailey,” he added, ”evidently has no desire that any intruder should gain access to his residence.”

”What shall we do?” asked Deacon, for it was now rapidly growing dark.

A thought had suddenly occurred to Walter that perhaps Enid's intention was to make a call there, after all.