"This ain't no time for play," growled Peter, whirling toward the house and the telephone. "What's that?" He stopped as his eye lighted upon a vivid sheet of paper lying on the ground.
"It was pinned to the p-pillow," Annie sobbed.
Peter snatched it up and stared for a moment in blank amazement. The words were printed in staggering characters, a bright vermilion in tone.
A flash of illumination swept over Peter's face.
There was an old barn at the end of the lane that had been moved back when the new stables were built. A few days before, Peter, himself unobserved, had seen Wallace knock three times on the door, and had heard a voice from inside respond:
"Who goes there?"
"A friend," said Wallace.
"Give the countersign."