The carriage had drawn up in the shade of some overhanging beech trees whilst they were speaking. The four men got out, and stood for a moment in the road. The night was a rough one, as Mr. Colquhoun had said; the wind blew in fierce but fitful gusts; the sky was covered with heavy, scurrying clouds.
Every now and then the wind sent a great dash of rain into their faces, it seemed as if a tempest were preparing, and the elements were about to be let loose.
"We are like thieves," said Heron, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't care for this style of work. I should walk boldly up to the door and give a thundering peal with the knocker."
"You don't know Hugo as well as I do," responded Brian.
"Thank Heaven, no. Are you armed, Fane?"
"I've got a stick," said Fane, with gusto.
"And I've got a revolver. Now for the fray."
"We shall not want arms of that kind," said Brian. "If you are ready, please follow me."
He led the way through the gates and down the drive, then turned off at right angles and pursued his way along a narrow path, across which the wet laurels almost touched, and had to be pushed back. They reached at last the side entrance of which Brian had spoken. He tried the handle, and gently shook the door; but it did not move. He tried it a second time—with no result.
"Locked!" said Percival, significantly.