he Red House has been
vacant for twelve months or more."

"Has it?" exclaimed the sergeant. "That's funny. Still, it's none of
my business; besides it may have been let within the last few days.
Anyway, listen, Bolton. You are to see if the garage is unlocked. If
it is and the keys are there, go in and lock the door behind you.
There's another door at the other end; go out and lock that too. Leave
the keys at the depot when you go off. Got that fixed?"

"Yes," replied Bolton, and he stood helmet in hand, half inaudibly
muttering the sergeant's instructions, evidently with the idea of
impressing them upon his memory.

"I have to pass the Red House, constable," I interrupted, "and as you
seem doubtful respecting its whereabouts, I will point the place out
to you."

"Thank you, sir," said Bolton, replacing his helmet and ceasing to
mutter.

"Once more--good night, sergeant," I cried, and met by a keen gust of
wind which came sweeping down the village street, showering cascades
of water from the leaves above, I set out in step with my stolid
companion.

It is supposed poetically that unusual events cast their shadows
before them, and I am prepared to maintain the correctness of such a
belief. But unless the silence of the constable who walked beside me
was due to the unseen presence of such a shadow, and not to a habitual
taciturnity, there was nothing in that march through the deserted
streets calculated to arouse me to the fact that I was entering upon
the first phase of an experience more strange and infinitely more
horrible than any of which I had ever known or even read.

The shadow had not yet reached me.

We talked little enough on the way, for the breeze when it came was
keen and troublesome, so that I was often engaged in clutching my hat.
Except for a dejected-looking object, obviously a member of the tramp
fraternity, who passed us near the gate of the old chapel, we met
never a soul from the time that we left the police-box until the
moment when the high brick wall guarding the Red House came into view
beyond a line of glistening wet hedgerow.

"This is the house, constable," I said. "The garage is beyond the main
entrance."

We proceeded as far as the closed gates, whereupon:

"There you are, sir," said Bolton triumphantly. "I told you it was
empty."

An estate agent's bill faced us, setting forth the desirable features
of the residence, the number of bedrooms and reception rooms, modern
conve