The driver of the taxicab surveyed his fare with some distrust.
“It seems to me, sir,” he said, “that your friends are not at home.”
Westerham's answer sounded very much like an oath.
He gave one final pull to the bell, and finding even that last rough summons ineffectual, turned to the man.
“Look here,” he said, “this may seem a rather curious business to you, but if you will help me I will pay you well. I am not at all sure that this house is as empty as it seems. Put your cab alongside the wall so that I can climb over the top. I want to go investigating.”
The man grumbled something to the effect that it was not his business, but the sight of the magnificent inducement which Westerham immediately offered him silenced his objections.
Westerham climbed to the top of the cab and dropped over the wall into the garden. He walked round the house and found it shuttered, dark and silent.
He whistled a long whistle to himself. “I wonder,” he thought, “if the birds have flown. I wonder if they have chucked up the sponge. I wonder——”
A second thought, however, which occurred to him, as he proceeded to climb over the garden wall again, was that it was much more likely that the house had been closed that evening in order that he might be cut off from all sources of information.
On further reflection, indeed, he came to the conclusion that this was certainly the case. “But perhaps you imagine,” he thought, mentally addressing Melun, “perhaps you imagine that I shall not come back. We will see.”