up the
hillside had convinced him that he was growing old, and there was no
rebound in his soul to counter the conviction. He felt listless,
spiritless--an apathy with fright trembling somewhere at the back of
it. He regarded the verandah wall with foreboding. How on earth could
he climb that? And if he did there would be his exposed hinder-parts
inviting a shot from some malevolent gentleman among the trees. He
reflected that he would give a large sum of money to be out of this
preposterous adventure.

Heritage's hand was stretched towards him, containing two of Mrs.
Morran's jellied scones, of which the Poet had been wise enough to
bring a supply in his pocket. The food cheered him, for he was growing
very hungry, and he began to take an interest in the scene before him
instead of his own thoughts. He observed every detail of the verandah.
There was a door at one end, he noted, giving on a path which wound
down to the sunk garden. As he looked he heard a sound of steps and
saw a man ascending this path.

It was the lame man whom Dougal had called Spittal, the dweller in the
South Lodge. Seen at closer quarters he was an odd-looking being, lean
as a heron, wry-necked, but amazingly quick on his feet. Had not Mrs.
Morran said that he hobbled as fast as other folk ran? He kept his eyes
on the ground and seemed to be talking to himself as he went, but he
was alert enough, for the dropping of a twig from a dying magnolia
transferred him in an instant into a figure of active vigilance. No
risks could be run with that watcher. He took a key from his pocket,
opened the garden door and entered the verandah. For a moment his
shuffle sounded on its tiled floor, and then he entered the door
admitting from the verandah to the House. It was clearly unlocked, for
there came no sound of a turning key.

Dickson had finished the last crumbs of his scones before the man
emerged again. He seemed to be in a greater hurry than ever as he
locked the garden door behind him and hobbled along the west front of
the House till he was lost to sight. After that the time passed
slowly. A pair of yellow wagtails arrived and played at hide-and-seek
among the stuccoed pillars. The little dry scratch of their claws was
heard clearly in the still air. Dickson had almost fallen asleep when
a smothered exclamation from Heritage woke him to attention. A girl
had appeared in the verandah.

Above the parapet he saw only her body from th