“Well, before we go and have that look at Prescott’s bedroom that I spoke about, I think I should like to take a glance at this seat.”
“Right-O,” I responded. “I’ll pilot you there.”
We made our way down the garden, turned off to the left, and struck out for the tennis courts.
The trees that Mary had spoken about lay to our left between us and the road to Allingham.
“There’s the seat,” I said. “We’re approaching it the way that Mary says she and Prescott came back. The trees were then, you will remember, on their right.” I pointed.
“Quite correct, Bill,” came his reply. “According to her version of what happened, the watcher had disappeared when they passed the trees on the journey back. Where did he get to?”
“Probably back into the road,” I ventured. “Where he had, doubtless, come from.”
“You think so?” he answered. “Let’s go and have a look. Come over to the trees themselves.” We made our way over. Anthony looked at the seat we had just left, and then turned and gazed across the field to where the Allingham Road lay like a white ribbon across the stretch of Downs.
“What’s this shed for?” he inquired. He indicated a wooden building on the opposite side of the path between us and the house.
“It’s used for storing the lawn tennis gear,” I answered. “Sir Charles Considine had it built near the courts for that purpose.”