With infinite precaution I began to creep forward again.  Between the trunks of the trees I could catch glimpses of a stout wood paling about six feet high which apparently ran the whole length of the grounds, separating them from the wood.  On the other side of this fence I could hear, as I drew nearer, a kind of splashing noise, and every now and then the sound of somebody moving about and whistling.

The last few yards consisted of a strip of open grass marked by deep cart-ruts.  Across this I crawled on my hands and knees, and getting right up against the fence began very carefully to search around for a peep-hole.  At last I found a tiny gap between two of the boards.  It was the merest chink, but by gluing my eye to it I was just able to see through.

I was looking into a square gravel-covered yard, in the centre of which a man in blue overalls was cleaning the mud off a small motor car.  He was evidently the owner, for he was a prosperous, genial-looking person of the retired Major type, and he was lightening his somewhat damp task by puffing away steadily at a pipe.  I watched him with a kind of bitter jealousy.  I had no idea who he was, but for the moment I hated him fiercely.  Why should he be able to potter around in that comfortable self-satisfied fashion, while I, Neil Lyndon, starved, soaked, and hunted like a wild beast, was crouching desperately outside his palings?

It was a natural enough emotion, but I was in too critical a position to waste time in asking myself questions.  I realized that if burglary had to be done, here was the right spot.  By going farther I should only be running myself into unnecessary risk, and probably without finding a house any more suitable to my purpose.

I squinted sideways through the hole, trying to master the geography of the place.  On the left was a high bank of laurels, and just at the corner I could see the curve of the drive, turning away up the hill.  On the other side of the yard was a small garage, built against the wall, while directly facing me was the back of the house.

I was just digesting these details, when a sudden sigh from the gentleman in the yard attracted my attention.  He had apparently had enough of cleaning the car, for laying down the cloth he had been using, he stepped back and began to contemplate his handiwork.

It was not much to boast about, but it seemed to be good enough for him.  At all events he came forward again, and taking off the brake, proceeded very slowly to push the car back towards the garage.  At the entrance he stopped for a moment, and going inside brought out a bicycle which he leaned against the wall.  Then he laboriously shoved the car into its appointed place, put back the bicycle, and standing in the doorway started to take off his overalls.

I need hardly say I watched him with absorbed interest.  The sight of the bicycle had sent a little thrill of excitement tingling down my back, for it opened up possibilities in the way of escape that five minutes before had seemed wildly out of reach.  If I could only steal the machine and the overalls as well, I should at least stand a good chance of getting clear away from the Moor before I was starved or captured.  In addition to that I should be richer by a costume which would completely cover up the tasteful but rather pronounced pattern of my clothes.