Between them and Trasmere’s house was the better part of a mile. Mayfield, the dwelling place of old Jesse, was the one ugly building in a road which was famous for the elegance of its houses. Built of hideously yellow brick, without any attempt at ornamentation, it stood squat and square in the middle of a cemented “garden.” Three microscopic circles of earth had been left at the urgent request of the builder, wherein Mr. Jesse might, if he so desired, win from the sickly earth such blooms and blossoms as might delight his eye. To this he reluctantly agreed, but only after there had been pointed out to him the fact that such an alteration to his plans would save a little money.
“It isn’t exactly the Palace of the Fairy Prince, is it?” said Tab, as he pushed open the cast iron gate.
“I’ve seen prettier houses,” admitted Carver, “I wonder—”
So far he got, when the front door was flung violently open and Rex Lander rushed out. His face was the colour of chalk, his big baby eyes were staring wildly. They fell upon the two men on the concrete walk and his mouth opened to speak, but no words came.
Tab ran to him.
“What is wrong?” he demanded and that something was badly wrong one glance at Babe Lander told him.
“My uncle,” he gasped. “Go look.”
Carver rushed into the house and through the open door of the dining-room. It was empty, but at the side of the fireplace was a narrower door.
“Where is he?” asked the detective.
Rex could only point to the narrow aperture.