od," and made some scribbled replies until Mrs. Deacon
entered to announce that his luncheon was ready.

When he went back to the quaint, old-fashioned dining-room and seated
himself, he said: "I'm going back by the five-eighteen, and I dare say I
shan't return for quite a month or perhaps six weeks. Here's a cheque
for ten pounds to pay these little bills." And he commenced his solitary
meal.

"You haven't been here much this summer, sir," remarked the good woman.
"In Idsworth they think you've quite deserted us--Mr. Barnes was only
saying so last week. They're all so glad to see you down here, sir."

"That's very good of them, Mrs. Deacon," he laughed. "I, too, only wish I
could spend more time here. I love the country, and I'm never so happy as
when wandering in Idsworth woods."

And then he asked her to tell him the village gossip while she waited at
his table.

After luncheon he put on a rough suit and, taking his stout holly stick,
went for a ramble through the great woods he loved so well, where the
trees were tinted by autumn and the pheasants were strong upon the wing.

He found Findlay, one of the keepers, and walked with him for an hour as
far as the Roman camp, where alone he sat down upon a felled tree and,
with his gaze fixed across the distant hills towards the sea, pondered
deeply. He loved his modest country cottage, and he loved those quiet,
homely Dorsetshire folk around him. Yet such a wanderer was he that only
a few months each year--the months he wrote those wonderful romances of
his--could he spend in that old-fashioned cottage which he had rendered
the very acme of cosiness and comfort.

At half-past four the rickety station fly called for him, and later he
left by the express which took him to Waterloo and his club in time for
dinner.

And so once again he changed his identity from John Maltwood, busy man of
business, to Walter Fetherston, novelist and traveller.

The seriousness of what was in progress was now plain to him. He had long
been filled with strong suspicions, and these suspicions had been
confirmed both by Enid's statements and his own observations; therefore
he was already alert and watchful.

At ten o'clock he went to his gloomy chambers for an hour, and then
strolled forth to the Vauxhall Bridge Road, and remained vigilant outside
the doctor's house until nearly two.

He noted those who came and went--two men who called before midnight, and
were evidently foreigners.