They were so ignorant as to the steps usually taken by a detective in such a situation that their idea of watching the house was simply adopted in the Micawberish hope that somehow something might turn up to help them. What that something might be they had no idea. But with the extraordinary luck which so often seems reserved for those who blindly plunge, they had not waited ten minutes before they received some really important information.
The unconscious agent was a postman. They saw him first pass near a lamp farther down the street, and then watched him gradually approach, calling in one house after another. Presently he reached the gate of Laurel Lodge, and opening it, passed inside.
From where they sat, the watchers, being in line with the front of the house, were not actually in sight of the hall door. But there was a heap of building material in front of their hiding place and Cheyne, slipping hurriedly out, crouched behind the pile in such a position that he could see what might take place.
In due course the postman reached the door, but instead of delivering his letters and retreating, he knocked and stood waiting. The door was opened by a woman, and her silhouette against the lighted interior showed she was not Susan Dangle. The woman was short, stout and elderly.
“Evening, ma’am,” Cheyne heard the man say. “A parcel for you.”
The woman thanked him and closed the door, while the postman crossed to a house on the opposite side of the street. As soon as his back was turned Cheyne left his hiding-place, and was strolling along the road when the postman again stepped on to the footpath.
“Good-evening, postman,” said Cheyne. “I’m looking for people called Dangle somewhere about here. Could you tell me where they live?”
The postman stopped and answered civilly:
“They’ve left here, sir, or at least there were people of that name here till a few weeks ago. They lived over there.” He pointed to Laurel Lodge.
Cheyne made a gesture of annoyance.