In this, nearly opposite the spot where they emerged on the road, was a small door which one of the men opened and through which they passed and locked it behind them, leaving Dunn without.
He hesitated for a moment, half-minded to scale the wall and continue on the other side of it to follow them.
Calculating the direction in which the village of Ramsdon must lie, he turned that way and had gone only a short distance when he was overtaken by a pedestrian with whom he began conversation by asking for a light for his pipe.
The man seemed inclined to be conversational, and after a few casual remarks, Dunn made an observation on the length of the wall they were passing and to the end of which they had just come.
“Must be a goodish-sized place in there,” he said. “Whose is it?”
“Oh, that there's Ramsdon Place,” the other answered. “Mr. John Clive lives there now his father's dead.”
Dunn stood still in the middle of the road.
“Who? What?” he stammered. “Who—who did you say?”
“Mr. John Clive,” the other repeated. “Why—what's wrong about that?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Dunn answered, but his voice shook a little with what seemed almost fear, and behind the darkness of the friendly night his face had become very pale. “Clive—John Clive, you say? Oh, that's impossible.”