plicity. Nothing could be easier for a man like Hill--an
ex-criminal--to have obtained a duplicate key, before handing over
possession of the keys. Rolfe had noticed with surprise when he was
locking up the house that the French windows of the morning room were
locked from the outside by a small key as well as being bolted from the
inside. Hill had explained that the late Sir Horace Fewbanks had
generally used this French window for gaining access to his room after a
nocturnal excursion.

Rolfe looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. He decided to go to
Hampstead and put his suspicions to the test. It was quite possible he
was mistaken, but if, on the other hand, Hill was paying a nocturnal
visit to Riversbrook and he had the luck to capture him, he might extract
from him some valuable evidence for the forthcoming trial that Hill had
kept back. And Rolfe was above all things interested at that moment in
making the case for the prosecution as strong as possible.

Rolfe walked to the Camden Town Underground station, bought a ticket for
Hampstead, and took his seat in the tube in that state of exhilarated
excitement which comes to the detective when he feels that he is on the
road to a disclosure. The speed of the train seemed all too slow for the
police officer, and he looked at his watch at least a dozen times during
the short journey from Camden Town to Hampstead.

When Rolfe arrived at Hampstead he set out at a rapid walk for
Riversbrook. It was quite dark when he reached Tanton Gardens. He turned
into the rustling avenue of chestnut trees, and strode swiftly down till
he reached the deserted house of the murdered man.

The gate was locked as he had left it, but Rolfe climbed over it. A late
moon was already throwing a refulgent light through the evening mists,
silvering the tops of the fir trees in front of the house. Rolfe walked
through the plantation, his footsteps falling noiselessly on the pine
needles which strewed the path. He quickly reached the other side of the
little wood, and the Italian garden lay before him, stretching in silver
glory to the dark old house beyond.

Rolfe stood still at the edge of the wood, and glanced across the moonlit
garden to the house. It seemed dark, deserted and desolate. There was no
sign of a light in any of the windows facing the plantation.

The moon, rising above the fringe of trees in the woodland which skirted
the meadows of the east side of the house, cast a sudden