"He knows it himself, I believe," I replied. "I didn't like leaving him to-night, and that's a fact. He seemed to be frightened about something. There was a man in the lane outside the hut who was singing and...."
"A man singing?" Bard queried sharply.
"Yes, to a guitar," I answered, surprised by his tone. "He sang very well, too!"
John Bard rose to his feet suddenly. He stepped to the verandah and held up his hand for silence.
"Were you followed when you came back from Adams's?" he asked me.
"No, not as far as I know."
Bard was listening intently. All was quiet in the gardens below, save for the murmurings of the sea breeze in the palms.
"Get into your clothes and come along, Okewood," he said, turning away from the window. "And leave that damned plan behind."
"Why, what...."
"Hurry, man, or we shall be too late."