Nor did Jimmie Dale himself appear again on the main road—­until just as he emerged close to the gates of Charleton Park Manor from a short cut through the woods.  Also, he was without his ulster now, and the slouch hat had replaced the motor cap.

Jimmie Dale, in the moonlight, took stock of his surroundings, as he passed in at a businesslike walk through the gates.  It was a large park, if that name could properly be applied to it at all, and the houses—­he caught sight of one set back from the driveway on the right—­were quite far apart, each in its own rather spacious grounds among the trees.

“The second house on the right,” her letter had said.  Jimmie Dale had already passed the first one—­the next would be Markel’s then—­and it loomed ahead of him now, black and shadowy and unlighted.

Jimmie Dale shot a glance around him—­there was stillness, quiet everywhere—­no sign of life—­no sound.

Jimmie Dale’s face became tense, his lips tight—­and he stepped suddenly from the sidewalk in among the trees.  They were not thick here, of course, the trees, and the turf beneath his feet was well kept—­and, therefore, soundless.  He moved quickly now, but cautiously, from tree to tree, for the moonlight, flooding the lawn and house, threw all objects into bold relief.

A minute, two, three went by—­and a shadow flitted here and there across the light-green sward, like the moving of the trees swaying in the breeze—­and then Jimmie Dale was standing close up against one side of the house, hidden by the protecting black shadows of the walls.

But here, for a moment, Jimmie Dale seemed little occupied with the house itself—­he was staring down past its length to where the woods made a heavy, dark background at the rear.  Then he turned his head, to face directly to the main road, then back again slowly, as though measuring an angle.  Jimmie Dale had no intention of making his escape by the roundabout way in which he had been forced to come in order to make certain of locating the right house, the second one from the gates—­and he was getting the bearings of his car and the wagon track now.

“I guess that’ll be about right,” Jimmie Dale muttered finally.  “And now for—­”

He slipped along the side of the house and halted where, almost on a level with the ground, the French windows of the dining room opened on the lawn.  Jimmie Dale tried them gently.  They were locked.

An indulgent smile crept to Jimmie Dale’s lips—­and his hand crept in under his vest.  It came out again—­not empty—­and Jimmie Dale leaned close against the window.  There was a faint, almost inaudible, scratching sound, then a slight, brittle crack—­and Jimmie Dale laid a neat little four-inch square of glass on the ground at his feet.  Through the aperture he reached in his hand, turned the key that was in the lock, turned the bolt-rod handle, pushed the doors silently open—­wide open—­left them open—­and stepped into the room.