Coming nearer, he saw the light of a lantern moving towards the little wood. Alvin was evidently not gone to bed.
What had he got in the little wood which he guarded so jealously and visited alone at night?
Philip, coming up to the garden gate, leaned upon it for a few moments. The air here was pungent with chrysanthemums and dead leaves. It was curious that the scent of Pickett’s rubbish fires was not evident here, yet the farm was nearer to the White House than to the bungalow.
With a big sigh of weariness Philip turned to go home, and noted that now a light was lying across his front garden.
Evidently Davis had heard his master’s footsteps and had lit up.
Ah, well! there would be the comfort of his own fireside awaiting him—a glass of grog (he could do with it hot, for the night was cold), and a pipe.
He entered his back garden by the little gate that led into the field, and was surprised to see no light in the kitchen window. Soda, too, was kicking about in the stable. Pickett’s rubbish fires smelt more strongly than ever.
Trying the back door, Philip found it locked, and after vain hammering, he went round to the front, which was lit—yes, very well lit!
Taking out his latchkey, he opened the door, and was met by a cloud of suffocating smoke.
Thoroughly alive now to the situation, he made his way to his sitting-room. He knew quite well what he should find.