We talked little enough on the way, for the breeze when it came was keen and troublesome, so that I was often engaged in clutching my hat. Except for a dejected-looking object, obviously a member of the tramp fraternity, who passed us near the gate of the old chapel, we met never a soul from the time that we left the police-box until the moment when the high brick wall guarding the Red House came into view beyond a line of glistening wet hedgerow.
"This is the house, constable," I said. "The garage is beyond the main entrance."
We proceeded as far as the closed gates, whereupon:
"There you are, sir," said Bolton triumphantly. "I told you it was empty."
An estate agent's bill faced us, setting forth the desirable features of the residence, the number of bedrooms and reception rooms, modern conveniences, garage, etc., together with the extent of the garden, lawn and orchard.
A faint creaking sound drew my glance upward, and stepping back a pace I stared at a hatchet-board projecting above the wall which bore two duplicates of the bill posted upon the gate.
"That seems to confirm it," I declared, peering through the trees in the direction of the house. "The place has all the appearance of being deserted."
"There's some mistake," muttered Bolton.
"Then the mistake is not ours," I replied. "See, the bills are headed 'To be let or sold. The Red House, etc.'"
"H'm," growled Bolton. "It's a funny go, this is. Suppose we have a look at the garage."