For a little distance the lane ran straight ahead of me; then it curved off suddenly to the left in the direction of the sea. I made my way cautiously round this bend, and found myself outside a high wooden paling, evidently the boundary of some private residence. About twenty yards farther on I could see a swing gate which apparently led into the drive.
Keeping well under the fence, and feeling unpleasantly like a burglar, I crept forward until I had reached the desired point. Any doubts I might have had as to the identity of the place were at once put to rest, for on the top bar, in faded and weather-beaten letters, was painted the following inscription:
"THE LAURELS."
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was in circumstances such as these that the late Mr. Sherlock Holmes always aroused my keenest admiration. No matter how puzzling the situation might be, he invariably knew what was the right line to take and exactly how to set about it. I suppose he must have been blessed with some inner sense which is denied to lesser mortals, for I know that in my own case no sudden inspiration came to help me. I just stood there gazing at the inscription with a kind of vague satisfaction, and wondering what the devil I ought to do next.
All my instincts prompted me to action, but the question was, What sort of action was the most advisable? I could not very well march up to the front door and hand in my card, much as I should have enjoyed making the experiment. There was Christine to be considered as well as myself; indeed, the feeling that whatever I did I must bring no suspicion upon her was the one predominant thought at the back of my mind.
From where I was standing I could see nothing of the house. The drive curved away sharply round a huge dump of laurels, and the whole place looked even more untidy and overgrown than my own property. If I chose I had only to push open the gate and walk in, and yet, with my hand actually on the latch, I still hesitated. Somehow or other it seemed altogether too easy. The vision of a mouse strolling unconcernedly into an open trap rose up before me with unpleasant distinctness, and, abandoning the idea, I stepped back again on to the grass.
It struck me that another and less public mode of entrance would be more in keeping with my part. The paling was only about five feet high, and offered little or no obstacle to anyone as active as myself. I could slip over quietly, just where the trees were thickest, and, unless the whole thing collapsed beneath me, the odds were that my ungentlemanly intrusion would probably pass unnoticed.
I was in the very act of turning away to put this notion into practice when a sudden sound from inside brought me up as stiff as a ramrod. It was the unmistakable noise of an opening door, followed almost immediately by the voice of a man speaking and the crunch of footsteps coming down the drive.