mmon, and I am only on
duty here on race days."

"Just so. What is the name of the house?"

"Let me see," the policeman said, reflectively. "Oh, I know. I think
they call it The Nook."

The officer passed on, and Phillips replaced the racing-glasses in their
case. Fortune was still on his side. He made his way through the woods
up into the road which ran in front of the houses, and came at length to
a pair of iron gates with the name of the house, The Nook, painted on
them in gilt letters. The place appeared to be fairly well looked after.
The paths were trim, but, so far as Phillips could see, there was little
traffic through the gates and no sign whatever of wheels, either of cabs
or motors. Peering through the shrubs, he noticed that the windows were
fitted with curtains and blinds as if the house were inhabited. There
was, perhaps, some risk in what Phillips was about to do, but he was
prepared to take the consequences. He walked briskly up the drive until
he came in front of the house. Most of the blinds were up. He saw
evidences of refinement and luxury in the blinds and curtains, though it
struck him as rather significant that the gardens had not had much
attention bestowed upon them. Phillips hesitated before ringing the
bell. It was an old-fashioned bell, with a drop-handle, and he could
hear it clanging through the house with a hollow sound which suggested
emptiness. As he expected, no reply came, though he rang two or three
times. It was impossible for any one to see into the living-rooms, for
the house was built upon a slope and the front door was approached by a
flight of steps. Just as Phillips was turning away a man emerged from
behind a belt of shrubs, followed by a truculent-looking bull-terrier.
He looked like a gardener, though there was in his appearance that
faint, intangible something which suggested a close familiarity with the
turf. He eyed Phillips sourly and suspiciously, and none too politely
requested to know his business.

"Are you employed here?" Phillips asked.

"Yes, I am," the man growled. "I am the gardener. And there's no one at
home, if you want to know."

Phillips' assumption of annoyance was artistic. He turned away
impatiently.

"Then Mr. Ronaldson is not here now?" he asked.

"Never heard the name," the gardener responded.

"But he used to live here. I knew him well in South Africa. He gave me
his address two years ago and asked me to look him up if ever I came to
Engl