green with
moss, like the sills of the windows and the high-pitched, tiled roof
itself. In the centre of the lawn, before the house, stood four great
ancient yews, while all round were high box hedges, now, alas! neglected,
untrimmed and full of holes.

The curtains were of the commonest kind, while the very steps leading to
the front door were grey with lichen and strewn with wisps of straw. The
whole aspect was one of neglect, of decay, of mystery.

The two men, opening the creaking iron gate, advanced boldly to the door,
an excuse ready in case Pietro opened it.

They knocked loudly, but there was no response. Their summons echoed
through the big hall, causing Walter to remark:

"There can't be much furniture inside, judging from the sound."

"Four motor vanloads came here," responded the sergeant. "The first was
in a plain van."

"You did not discover whence it came?"

"I asked the driver down at the inn at Southminster, and he told me that
they came from the Trinity Furnishing Company, Peckham. But, on making
inquiries, I found that he lied; there is no such company in Peckham."

"You saw the furniture unloaded?"

"I was about here when the first lot came. When the other three vans
arrived I was away on my annual leave," was the sergeant's reply.

Again they knocked, but no one came to the door. A terrier approached,
but he proved friendly, therefore they proceeded to make an inspection
of the empty stabling and disused outbuildings.

Three old hen-coops were the only signs of poultry-farming they could
discover, and these, placed in a conspicuous position in the big, paved
yard, were without feathered occupants.

There were three doors by which the house could be entered, and all of
them Walter tried and found locked. Therefore, noticing in the
rubbish-heap some stray pieces of paper, he at once turned his attention
to what he discovered were fragments of a torn letter. It was written in
French, and, apparently, had reference to certain securities held by the
tenant of The Yews.

But as only a small portion of the destroyed communication could be
found, its purport was not very clear, and the name and address of the
writer could not be ascertained.

Yet it had already been proved without doubt that the mysterious tenant
of the dismal old place--the man who posed as a poultry-farmer--had had
as visitors Dr. Weirmarsh and Enid Orlebar!

For a full half-hour, while the red-faced sergeant kept watch