The sodden remains of many letters he withdrew and tried to read, but the sc.r.a.ps gave no tangible result, and he was just about to relinquish his search when his eye caught a sc.r.a.p of bright blue notepaper of a familiar hue. It was half burned, and blurred by the rain, but at the corner he recognised some embossing in dark blue--familiar embossing it was--of part of the address in Hill Street!

The paper was that used habitually by Enid Orlebar, and upon it was a date, two months before, and the single word "over" in her familiar handwriting.

He took his stout walking-stick, in reality a sword-case, and frantically searched for other sc.r.a.ps, but could find none. One tiny portion only had been preserved from the flames--paraffin having been poured over the heap to render it the more inflammable. But that sc.r.a.p in itself was sufficient proof that Enid had written to the mysterious tenant of The Yews.

"Well," he said at last, approaching the sergeant, "do you think the coast is clear enough?"

"For what?"

"To get a glimpse inside. There's a good deal more mystery here than we imagine, depend upon it!" Walter exclaimed.

"Master and man will return by the same train, I expect, unless they come back in a motor-car. If they come by train they won't be here till well past eight, so we'll have at least three hours by ourselves."

Walter Fetherston glanced around. Twilight was fast falling.

"It'll be dark inside, but I've brought my electric torch," he said.

"There's a kitchen window with an ordinary latch."

"That's no use. There are iron bars," declared the sergeant. "I examined it the other day. The small staircase window at the side is the best means of entry." And he took the novelist round and showed him a long narrow window about five feet from the ground.

Walter's one thought was of Enid. Why had she written to that mysterious foreigner? Why had she visited there? Why, indeed, was she back in England surrept.i.tiously, and in that neighbourhood?

The short winter's afternoon was nearly at an end as they stood contemplating the window prior to breaking in--for Walter Fetherston felt justified in breaking the law in order to examine the interior of that place.

In the dark branches of the trees the wind whistled mournfully, and the scudding clouds were precursory of rain.

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Walter. "This isn't a particularly cheerful abode, is it, sergeant?"

"No, sir, if I lived 'ere I'd have the blues in a week," laughed the man.

"I can't think 'ow Mr. Bailey employs 'is time."

"Poultry-farming," laughed Fetherston, as, standing on tiptoe, he examined the window-latch by flashing on the electric torch.

"No good!" he declared. "There's a shutter covered with new sheet-iron behind."

"It doesn't show through the curtain," exclaimed Deacon.

"But it's there. Our friend is evidently afraid of burglars."

From window to window they pa.s.sed, but the mystery was considerably increased by the discovery that at each of those on the ground floor were iron-faced shutters, though so placed as not to be noticeable behind the windows, which were entirely covered with cheap curtain muslin.

"That's funny!" exclaimed the sergeant. "I've never examined them with a light before."

"They have all been newly strengthened," declared Fetherston. "On the other side I expect there are strips of steel placed lattice-wise, a favourite device of foreigners. Mr. Bailey," he added, "evidently has no desire that any intruder should gain access to his residence."

"What shall we do?" asked Deacon, for it was now rapidly growing dark.

A thought had suddenly occurred to Walter that perhaps Enid's intention was to make a call there, after all.

"Our only way to obtain entrance is, I think, by one of the upper windows," replied the man whose very life was occupied by the investigation of mysteries. "In the laundry I noticed a ladder. Let us go and get it."

So the ladder, a rather rotten and insecure one, was obtained, and after some difficulty placed against the wall. It would not, however, reach to the windows, as first intended, therefore Walter mounted upon the slippery, moss-grown tiles of a wing of the house, and after a few moments' exploration discovered a skylight which proved to be over the head of the servants' staircase.

This he lifted, and, fixing around a chimney-stack a strong silk rope he had brought in his pocket ready for any emergency, he threw it down the opening, and quickly lowered himself through.

Scarcely had he done so, and was standing on the uncarpeted stairs, when his quick ear caught the sound of Deacon's footsteps receding over the gravel around to the front of the house.

Then, a second later, he heard a loud challenge from the gloom in a man's voice that was unfamiliar:

"Who's there?"

There was no reply. Walter listened with bated breath.

"What are you doing there?" cried the new-comer in a voice in which was a marked foreign accent. "Speak! _speak!_ or I'll shoot!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SECRET OF THE LONELY HOUSE

WALTER did not move. He realised that a _contretemps_ had occurred. The ladder still leaning against the wall outside would reveal his intrusion.

Yet, at last inside, he intended, at all hazards, to explore the place and learn the reason why the mysterious stranger had started that "poultry farm."

He was practically in the dark, fearing to flash on his torch lest he should be discovered.

Was it possible that Bailey or his Italian manservant had unexpectedly returned!

Those breathless moments seemed hours.

Suddenly he heard a second challenge. The challenger used a fierce Italian oath, and by it he knew that it was Pietro.

In reply, a shot rang out--evidently from the sergeant's pistol, followed by another sharp report, and still another. This action showed the man Deacon to be a shrewd person, for the effect was exactly as he had intended. The Italian servant turned on his heel and flew for his life down the drive, shouting in his native tongue for help and for the police.

"Madonna santa!" he yelled. "Who are you here?" he demanded in Italian.

"I'll go to the police!"

And in terror he rushed off down the road.

"All right, sir," cried the sergeant, after the servant had disappeared.

"I've given the fellow a good fright. Be quick and have a look round, sir. You can be out again before he raises the alarm!"

In an instant Walter flashed on his torch and, dashing down the stairs, crossed the kitchen and found himself in the hall. From room to room he rushed, but found only two rooms on the ground floor furnished--a sitting-room, which had been the original dining-room, while in the study was a chair-bed, most probably where Pietro slept.

On the table lay a heavy revolver, fully loaded, and this Fetherston quickly transferred to his jacket pocket.