"Well," he said at last, approaching the sergeant, "do you think the coast is clear enough?"
"For what?"
"To get a glimpse inside. There's a good deal more mystery here than we imagine, depend upon it!" Walter exclaimed.
"Master and man will return by the same train, I expect, unless they come back in a motor-car. If they come by train they won't be here till well past eight, so we'll have at least three hours by ourselves."
Walter Fetherston glanced around. Twilight was fast falling.
"It'll be dark inside, but I've brought my electric torch," he said. "There's a kitchen window with an ordinary latch."
"That's no use. There are iron bars," declared the sergeant. "I examined it the other day. The small staircase window at the side is the best means of entry." And he took the novelist round and showed him a long narrow window about five feet from the ground.
Walter's one thought was of Enid. Why had she written to that mysterious foreigner? Why had she visited there? Why, indeed, was she back in England surreptitiously, and in that neighbourhood?
The short winter's afternoon was nearly at an end as they stood contemplating the window prior to breaking in—for Walter Fetherston felt justified in breaking the law in order to examine the interior of that place.
In the dark branches of the trees the wind whistled mournfully, and the scudding clouds were precursory of rain.
