t down hill in a wide curve, past the miniature shrubbery, right
into the bosom of the park.

"This path," explained Garvington, stamping again, "runs right through
the park to a small wicket gate set in the brick wall, which borders the
high road, Darby."

"And that runs straightly past Abbot's Wood," mused the inspector. "Of
course, Sir Hubert would know of the path and the wicket gate?"

"Certainly; don't be an ass, Darby," cried Garvington petulantly. "He
has been in this house dozens of times and knows it as well as I do
myself. Why do you ask so obvious a question?"

"I was only wondering if Sir Hubert came by the high road to the wicket
gate you speak of, Lord Garvington."

"That also is obvious," retorted the other, irritably. "Since he wished
to come here, he naturally would take the easiest way."

"Then why did he not enter by the main avenue gates?"

"Because at that hour they would be shut, and--since it is evident that
his visit was a secret one--he would have had to knock up the
lodge-keeper."

"Why was his visit a secret one?" questioned Darby pointedly.

"That is the thing that puzzles me. Anything more?"

"Yes? Why should Sir Hubert come to the blue door?"

"I can't answer that question, either. The whole reason of his being
here, instead of in Paris, is a mystery to me."

"Oh, as to that last, the reply is easy," remarked the inspector. "Sir
Hubert wished to revert to his free gypsy life, and pretended to be in
Paris, so that he would follow his fancy without the truth becoming
known. But why he should come on this particular night, and by this
particular path to this particular door, is the problem I have to
solve!"

"Quite so, and I only hope that you will solve it, for the sake of my
sister."

Darby reflected for a moment or so. "Did Lady Agnes ask her husband to
come here to see her privately?"

"Hang it, no man!" cried Garvington, aghast. "She believed, as we all
did, that her husband was in Paris, and certainly never dreamed that he
was masquerading as a gypsy three miles away."

"There was no masquerading about the matter, my lord," said Darby,
dryly; "since Sir Hubert really was a gypsy called Ishmael Hearne. That
fact will come out at the inquest."

"It has come out now: everyone knows the truth. And a nice thing it is
for me and Lady Agnes."

"I don't think you need worry about that, Lord Garvington. The honorable
way in which the late Sir Hubert attained rank and gaine