“He never seems to have had but one visitor, a gentleman rather older than himself. He used to run down for two or three days at a time. For some time now he’s been staying with him altogether.”
Varney pricked up his ears. Was he going to discover anything useful?
“Do you know his friend’s name?” he asked eagerly.
“No, sir. The gardener has never heard it, but then, as I say, he hardly ever goes inside the house.”
The next day, and the day after, Varney watched Forest View closely. From the roadway he had a fairly clear view of the sloping lawn. But neither its occupier nor his visitor were tempted out by the beautiful weather. They were certainly an extraordinary pair to shut themselves up in a gloomy house on these bright sunshiny days.
On the third day, however, both emerged from their seclusion, and sauntered on to the lawn. The visitor seemed to stoop slightly, and walk with the languid air of a man who had recently recovered from an illness.
They walked about only for a little while, and, as they went back into the house, Varney, from his hiding-place behind the hedge, heard Mr Strange say:
“Well, if you think you feel fit enough, we will walk into Horsham after lunch. We can drive back. It may do you good.”
An idea had formed itself in Varney’s brain, fitting in with one of the theories he had formed about this remarkable case.
A little after one o’clock the supposed artist stole through the door of the inn, a basket in one hand, a good-sized bag in the other.