“Toward the moor,” said Macey, with an air of mock mystery. “There’s something going on, old chap.”
“What do you mean?”
“A little girl came and waited about the gate till we were in the grounds, and then she began to signal and I went to her. But she didn’t want me. She said she wanted to give this to that tall gentleman.”
“This?” said Vane. “What was this?”
“A piece of stick, with notches cut in it,” said Macey.
“You’re not chaffing, are you?”
“Not a bit of it. I went and told Distie, and he turned red as a bubby-jock and went down to the gate, took the stick, stuck it in his pocket, and then marched off.”
“Why, what does that mean?” cried Vane.
“I don’t know,” said Macey. “Distie must belong to some mysterious bund or verein, as the Germans call it. Perhaps he’s a Rosicrucian, or a member of a mysterious sect, and this was a summons to a meeting.”
“Get out,” cried Vane.