heard a loud challenge from the gloom in a man's
voice that was unfamiliar:

"Who's there?"

There was no reply. Walter listened with bated breath.

"What are you doing there?" cried the new-comer in a voice in which was a
marked foreign accent. "Speak! _speak!_ or I'll shoot!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SECRET OF THE LONELY HOUSE

WALTER did not move. He realised that a _contretemps_ had occurred. The
ladder still leaning against the wall outside would reveal his intrusion.
Yet, at last inside, he intended, at all hazards, to explore the place
and learn the reason why the mysterious stranger had started that
"poultry farm."

He was practically in the dark, fearing to flash on his torch lest he
should be discovered.

Was it possible that Bailey or his Italian manservant had unexpectedly
returned!

Those breathless moments seemed hours.

Suddenly he heard a second challenge. The challenger used a fierce
Italian oath, and by it he knew that it was Pietro.

In reply, a shot rang out--evidently from the sergeant's pistol, followed
by another sharp report, and still another. This action showed the man
Deacon to be a shrewd person, for the effect was exactly as he had
intended. The Italian servant turned on his heel and flew for his life
down the drive, shouting in his native tongue for help and for the
police.

"Madonna santa!" he yelled. "Who are you here?" he demanded in Italian.
"I'll go to the police!"

And in terror he rushed off down the road.

"All right, sir," cried the sergeant, after the servant had disappeared.
"I've given the fellow a good fright. Be quick and have a look round,
sir. You can be out again before he raises the alarm!"

In an instant Walter flashed on his torch and, dashing down the stairs,
crossed the kitchen and found himself in the hall. From room to room he
rushed, but found only two rooms on the ground floor furnished--a
sitting-room, which had been the original dining-room, while in the study
was a chair-bed, most probably where Pietro slept.

On the table lay a heavy revolver, fully loaded, and this Fetherston
quickly transferred to his jacket pocket.

Next moment he dashed up the old well staircase two steps at a time and
entered room after room. Only one was furnished--the tenant's bedroom. In
it he found a number of suits of clothes, while on the dressing-table lay
a false moustache, evidently for disguise. A small writing-table was set
in the window, and upon it w