Past these the limousine whizzed on like a thing possessed, taking the last mile between the forked lane to the house at such a speed that it would have overtaken or passed any other vehicle that might have been coming to the hall. But the lane was deserted and they passed down it alone. Another quarter of an hour took them past a big house standing half hidden in its own grounds. This was, as Cleek knew, the home of Lady Brenton, whom Ailsa had mentioned but a short time ago as being a neighbour of both Miss Cheyne and herself.
Some five hundred feet more, and they came to a pair of very dilapidated iron gates, standing wide open, and covered with a heavy coating of orange rust. Creepers twisted and twined themselves about the rotting rungs, clothing them with a sombre dignity that shrouded much of their evident neglect.
Cleek drove up the grass-grown strip of pebbles that was the pathway into a tangled avenue of overhanging trees that looked grim and forbidding. It was no wonder that few travellers passing that way guessed the existence of a house behind them.
As for that house itself, to Cleek's eyes it showed neither light nor signs of habitation. No smoke issued from its chimney-pots, nor was there a sound. To all intents and purposes, it might have been an empty building, and Cleek, who had hopped off the driver's seat, dived hastily for his powerful electric torch, preparatory to making a closer investigation.
The mist which had been gradually rising now seemed to wrap them in an impenetrable veil. The moon's light had vanished and for a moment only the drip-drip of some distant water broke on his ears as he stood alert, watchful, and keen. And even as he stood came a sound that froze his heart's blood, a sound terrifying in the broad open glory of daylight, but here, in the dark and chill, muffled by distance, yet none the less unmistakable, a very terror indeed. And that sound was the sharp crack of a revolver!
For a moment, as its full significance was borne in on his mind, Cleek stood rigid. Then as the door of the car flew open he turned to meet Lady Margaret in the very act of jumping out.
His first thought was as to whether she, too, had heard the ill-omened sound, but it was evident that she had not realized, or perhaps even noticed it. A frown furrowed her clear, child's brow and she clapped her hands together with a little gesture of impatience.
"Oh, can't you make any one hear, Mr. Deland?" she cried despairingly. "Please do make them hurry. I am so tired."
Cleek started forward, and dashing up the two or three stone steps, sent peal after peal of the jangling, old-fashioned bell reverberating through the house. There came no answer.
He bent down and peered through the letter-box, at the same time striking a match and letting its feeble light struggle through the aperture. All within was dark, and yet Cleek's tense nerves gave a little quivery jump. For a sound, slight though it was, came to his trained ears. It was the sound of a padded footstep, and to his nostrils was borne a strange, sweet scent, familiar yet tantalizingly unknown.