My brief survey completed, then, I returned to the Abbey Inn for my
stick and camera, and set out forthwith for Friar's Park.

From certain atmospherical indications which I had observed, I had
anticipated a return of the electrical storm which a few days before
had interrupted the extraordinary heat-wave. And now as I left the
village behind and came out on the dusty highroad a faint breeze
greeted me--and afar off I discerned a black cloud low down upon the
distant hills.

CHAPTER XIII

DR. DAMAR GREEFE

As the crow flies Friar's Park was less than two miles from the Abbey
Inn; but the road, which according to a sign-board led "to
Hainingham," followed a tortuous course through the valley, and when
at last I came to what I assumed to be the gate-lodge, a thunderous
ebony cloud crested the hill-top above, and its edge, catching the
burning rays of the sun, glowed fiercely like the pall of Avalon in
the torchlight. Through the dense ranks of firs cloaking the slopes a
breeze presaging the coming storm whispered evilly, and here in the
hollow the birds were still.

I stared rather blankly at the ivy-covered lodge, which, if
appearances were to be trusted, was unoccupied. But I pushed open the
iron gate and tugged at a ring which was suspended from the wall. A
discordant clangor rewarded my efforts, the cracked note of a bell
which spoke from somewhere high up in the building, that seemed to be
buffeted to and fro from fir to fir, until it died away, mournfully,
in some place of shadows far up the slope.

In the voice of the bell there was something lonesome, something akin
to the atmosphere of desertion which seemed to lie upon the whole
neighborhood--something fearful, too, as though the bell would
whisper: "Return! Beware of disturbing the dwellers in this place."

The house, one wing of which I have said was visible from the inn
window, could not be seen at all from the gate. Indeed I had lost
sight of it at the moment that I had set out and had never obtained a
glimpse of it since.

Ten minutes before, I had inquired the way from a farm-laborer whom I
had met on the road, and he had answered me with a curiosity but
thinly veiled. His directions had been characterized by that rustic
vagueness which assumes in the inquirer an intimate knowledge of local
landmarks. But nevertheless I believed I had come aright. I gathered
from its name that Friar's Park was in part at least a former monastic
buildi