Further revelation of Mr. Creake’s nocturnal habits was cut off, greatly to Mr. Carlyle’s annoyance, by a cough of unmistakable significance from the foot of the stairs.  They had heard a trade cart drive up to the gate, a knock at the door, and the heavy-footed woman tramp along the hall.

“Excuse me a minute, please,” said Mrs. Creake.

“Louis,” said Carrados, in a sharp whisper, the moment they were alone, “stand against the door.”

With extreme plausibility Mr. Carlyle began to admire a picture so situated that while he was there it was impossible to open the door more than a few inches.  From that position he observed his confederate go through the curious procedure of kneeling down on the bedroom floor and for a full minute pressing his ear to the sheet of metal that had already engaged his attention.  Then he rose to his feet, nodded, dusted his trousers, and Mr. Carlyle moved to a less equivocal position.

“What a beautiful rose-tree grows up your balcony,” remarked Carrados, stepping into the room as Mrs. Creake returned.  “I suppose you are very fond of gardening?”

“I detest it,” she replied.

“But this Gloire, so carefully trained—?”

“Is it?” she replied.  “I think my husband was nailing it up recently.”  By some strange fatality Carrados’s most aimless remarks seemed to involve the absent Mr. Creake.  “Do you care to see the garden?”

The garden proved to be extensive and neglected.  Behind the house was chiefly orchard.  In front, some semblance of order had been kept up; here it was lawn and shrubbery, and the drive they had walked along.  Two things interested Carrados:  the soil at the foot of the balcony, which he declared on examination to be particularly suitable for roses, and the fine chestnut-tree in the corner by the road.

As they walked back to the car Mr. Carlyle lamented that they had learned so little of Creake’s movements.

“Perhaps the telegram will tell us something,” suggested Carrados.  “Read it, Louis.”

Mr. Carlyle cut open the envelope, glanced at the enclosure, and in spite of his disappointment could not restrain a chuckle.

“My poor Max,” he explained, “you have put yourself to an amount of ingenious trouble for nothing.  Creake is evidently taking a few days’ holiday and prudently availed himself of the Meteorological Office forecast before going.  Listen:  ’Immediate prospect for London warm and settled.  Further outlook cooler but fine.’ Well, well; I did get a pound of tomatoes for my fourpence.”

“You certainly scored there, Louis,” admitted Carrados, with humorous appreciation.  “I wonder,” he added speculatively, “whether it is Creake’s peculiar taste usually to spend his week-end holiday in London.”

“Eh?” exclaimed Mr. Carlyle, looking at the words again, “by gad, that’s rum, Max.  They go to Weston-super-Mare.  Why on earth should he want to know about London?”