at the
gate, Walter Fetherston continued to investigate that rubbish-heap, which
showed signs of having been burning quite recently, for most of the
scraps of paper were charred at their edges.

The sodden remains of many letters he withdrew and tried to read, but the
scraps gave no tangible result, and he was just about to relinquish his
search when his eye caught a scrap 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 scraps, 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 scrap 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 surreptitiously, 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 whistle