"I see." And then, "You didn't see any one come away from the kitchen door?"
"No. He's thar yet, I reckon."
Peter ran out to the garage to verify this statement. By the light of a lantern the chauffeur in his rubber boots was washing the two cars.
"Have you been up to the house lately?"
"Why, no," said the man, in surprise.
"You're sure?" asked Peter excitedly.
"Sure——"
"Then come with me. There's something on."
The man dropped his sponge and followed Peter, who had run back quickly to the house.
It was now after eleven. From the drawing-room came the distracting sounds from the tortured piano, but there was no one on the portico. So Peter, with Jesse, Andy and the chauffeur made a careful round of the house, examining every bush, every tree, within a circle of a hundred yards, exhausting every possibility for concealment. When they reached the kitchen door again, Peter rubbed his head and gave it up. A screech owl somewhere off in the woods jeered at him. All the men, except Jesse, were plainly skeptical. But he sent them back to their posts and, still pondering the situation, went into the house.