some fifty yards further, and turned sharply through an open gate. Once
again he stopped and listened keenly, standing now in the shadow of the
trees beside the drive. In his dark top coat and with his hat turned
over his face he was as nearly invisible as a man could be, but even
this did not seem to satisfy him, for in a moment he gently parted the
branches of the trees and pushed through the belt of planting to the
lawn beyond.

The villa of Mr. Simon Rattar was now half seen beyond the curving end
of the belt that bounded the drive. It was dim against the night sky,
and the garden was dimmer still. Carrington kept on the grass, following
the outside of the trees, and then again plunged into them when they
curved round at the top of the drive. Pushing quietly through, he
reached the other side, and there his expedition in search of fresh air
seemed to have found its goal, for he leaned his back against a tree
trunk, folded his arms, and waited.

He was looking obliquely across a sweep of gravel, with the whole front
of the house full in view. A ray came from the fanlight over the front
door and a faint radiance escaped through the slats of the library
blinds, but otherwise the villa was a lump of darkness in the dark.

One minute after another passed without event and with scarcely even the
faintest sound. Then, all at once, a little touch of breeze sprang up
and sighed overhead through the tree tops, and from that time on, there
was an alternation of utter silence with the sough of branches gently
stirred.

From a church tower in the town came the stroke of a clock. Carrington
counted nine and his eyes were riveted on the front door now. Barely
two more minutes passed before it opened quietly; a figure appeared for
an instant in the light of the hall, and then, as quietly, the door
closed again. There was a lull at the moment, but Carrington could hear
not a sound. The figure must be standing very still on the doorstep,
listening--evidently listening. And then the thickset form of Simon
Rattar appeared dimly on the gravel, crossing to the lawn beyond. The
pebbles crunched a little, but not very much. He seemed to be walking
warily, and when he reached the further side he stood still again and
Carrington could see his head moving, as though he were looking all
round him through the night.

But now the figure was moving again, coming this time straight for the
head of the belt of trees. Carrington had drawn on a