ive of Hillside, Nicol Brinn
dropped off and dived into the bushes on the right of the path. From
this hiding place he saw the automobile driven around the front of the
house to the garage, which was built out from the east wing. Not daring
to pursue his investigations until the chauffeur had retired, he sought
a more comfortable spot near a corner of the lawn and there, behind a
bank of neglected flowers, lay down, watching the man's shadowy figure
moving about in the garage.

Although he was some distance from the doors he could see that there
was a second car in the place--a low, torpedo-bodied racer, painted
battleship gray. This sight turned his thoughts in another direction.

Very cautiously he withdrew to the drive again, retracing his steps
to the lane, and walking back to the spot where he had left the Rolls
Royce, all the time peering about him to right and left. He was looking
for a temporary garage for the car, but one from which, if necessary,
he could depart in a hurry. The shell of an ancient barn, roofless and
desolate, presently invited inspection and, as a result, a few minutes
later Colonel Lord Wolverham's luxurious automobile was housed for the
night in these strange quarters.

When Nicol Brinn returned to Hillside, he found the garage locked
and the lights extinguished. Standing under a moss-grown wall which
sheltered him from the house, from his case he selected a long black
cigar, lighted it with care and, having his hands thrust in the pockets
of his light overcoat and the cigar protruding aggressively from the
left corner of his mouth, he moved along to an angle of the wall and
stared reflectively at the silent house.

A mental picture arose of a secret temple in the shadow of the distant
Himalayas. Was it credible that this quiet country house, so typical of
rural England, harboured that same dread secret which he had believed to
be locked away in those Indian hills? Could he believe that the dark
and death-dealing power which he had seen at work in the East was now
centred here, within telephone-call of London?

The fate of Sir Charles Abingdon and of Paul Harley would seem to
indicate that such was the case. Beyond doubt, the document of which
Rama Dass had spoken was some paper in the possession of the late Sir
Charles. Much that had been mysterious was cleared up. He wondered why
it had not occurred to him from the first that Sir Charles's inquiry,
which he had mentioned to Paul Harle