“Help!” shouted the count, at the same moment releasing his grip on the reins. Away tore the horses, kicking great chunks of mud over him as he tumbled aimlessly into the underbrush. Down the road clattered the animals, leaving the trio marooned in the wilderness. Groaning and half dead, the unfortunate count was dragged from the brush by his furious companions. What the duke said to him was sufficient without being repeated, here or elsewhere. The count challenged him as they all resumed the march up the hill to visit the house with the lighted windows.
“Here is my card, m'sieur,” he grated furiously.
“Demme, I know you!” roared the duke. “Keep your card and we'll send it in to announce our arrival to Shaw.”
In due course of time, after many slips and falls, they reached the front yard of the house on the hillside. It was still raining lightly; the thunder and lightning were crashing away noisily farther up the valley. Cautiously they approached through the weeds and brush.
“By Jove!” exclaimed his lordship, coming to a standstill. He turned the light of his lantern toward the front elevation of the house. “Every door and window, except these three, are boarded up. It can't be Shaw's home.”
“That's right, old chap. Deuced queer, eh? I say, Deveaux, step up and pound on the door. You've got a card, you know.”
“Que diable!” exclaimed the count, sinking into the background.
“We might reconnoitre a bit,” said Bazelhurst.
“Have a look at the rear, you know.”
Around the corner of the house they trailed, finally bringing up at the back steps. The windows were not only dark but boarded up. While they stood there amazed and uncertain, the rain came down again in torrents, worse than before if possible. They scampered for cover, plunging three abreast beneath the same steps that had sheltered Penelope and Shaw such a short time before.