"They came only on that one occasion, eh?"
"Only that once, sir."
"But why, I wonder, is she going to The Yews? Pietro, you say, went up to London this morning?"
"Yes, sir, by the nine-five. And the house is locked up—she's evidently unaware of that."
"No doubt. She'll go there, and, finding nobody at home, turn away disappointed. She must not see us."
"We'll take good care of that, sir," laughed the local sergeant breezily, as he left his companion's side and crossed the road so that he could see the bend. "Why!" he exclaimed, "she ain't goin' to Asheldham after all! She's taken the footpath to the left that leads into Steeple! Evidently she knows the road!"
"Then we are free to go straight along to The Yews, eh? She's making a call in the vicinity. I wonder where she's going?"
"Your friend will ascertain that," said the sergeant. "Let's get along to The Yews and 'ave a peep round."
Therefore the pair, now that Enid was sufficiently far ahead along a footpath which led under a high, bare hedge, went forth again down the high road until, after crossing the brook, they turned to the right into Asheldham village, where, half-way between that place and New Hall, they turned up a short by-road, a cul-de-sac, at the end of which a big, old-fashioned, red-brick house of the days of Queen Anne, half hidden by a belt of high Scotch firs, came into view.
Shut off from the by-road by a high, time-mellowed brick wall, it stood back lonely and secluded in about a couple of acres of well wooded ground. From a big, rusty iron gate the ill-kept, gravelled drive took a broad sweep up to the front of the house, a large, roomy one with square, inartistic windows and plain front, the ugliness of which the ivy strove to hide.