The pole stood almost exactly opposite the library window. The scar in the bark was high up and diagonal and quite freshly made, for the wood was dead white and much splintered.
The young man put a hand on the upright for support and leant forward, carefully refraining from putting his foot on the soft brown mould of the flower-bed which fringed the path between it and the rustic woodwork. Then he ran lightly down the steps until he stood with his back to the library window. From here he carefully surveyed the upright again, then, returning to the rosery, began a careful scrutiny of the gravel paths and the beds.
Apparently his search gave little result, for he presently abandoned it and turned his attention to the wooden framework on the other side of the rectangular rose-garden. He plunged boldly in among the rose-bushes and examined each upright in turn. He spent about half an hour in this meticulous investigation, and then, his boots covered with mould, his rough shooting-coat glistening with moisture, he walked slowly down the steps and reentered the house.
As he was wiping the mud off his boots on the great mat in the front hall, Bude came out of the lounge hall with a pile of dishes on a tray.
“Bude,” said Robin, “can you tell me if the fire in the library has been smoking of late?”
“Well, sir,” replied the butler, “we’ve always had trouble with that chimdy when the wind’s in the southwest.”
“Has it been smoking lately?” The young man reiterated his question impatiently.
The man looked up in surprise.
“Well, sir, now you come to mention it, it has. As a matter o’fact, sir, the sweep was ordered for to-day ...”
“Why?”