“How does one get out here from New York, Mrs. Hargis?” I asked, as I sat down.  “That is, if one doesn’t happen to own a motor car?”

“Why, very easily, sir.  Take the Third Avenue elevated to the end of the line, and then the trolley.  It runs along Dryden Road, just two blocks over.”

“Where does one get off?”

“At Prospect Street, sir.”

“And what is this place called?”

“This is the old Bennett place, sir.”

“Thank you.  And let me tell you, Mrs. Hargis,” I added, “that I have never tasted a better salad.”

Her kindly old face flushed with pleasure.

“It’s nice of you to say that, sir,” she said.  “We have our own garden, and William takes a great pride in it.”

“I must go and see it,” I said.  “I’ve always fancied I’d like to potter around in a garden.  I must see if Mr. Godfrey won’t let me in on this.”

“He spends an hour in it every morning.  Sometimes he can hardly tear himself away.  I certainly do like Mr. Godfrey.”

“So do I,” I agreed heartily.  “He’s a splendid fellow—­one of the nicest, squarest men I ever met—­and a friend worth having.”

“He’s all of that, sir,” she agreed, and stood for a moment, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously, as though there was something else she wished to say.  But she evidently thought better of it.  “There’s the bell, sir,” she added.  “Please ring if there’s anything else you want,” and she left me to myself.

I had pushed back my chair and was filling my pipe when the telephone rang.  It was Swain.

“Swain,” I said, “this is Mr. Lester.  I’m at a place up here in the Bronx, and I want you to come up right away.”

“Very good, sir,” said Swain.  “How do I get there?”

“Take the Third Avenue elevated to the end of the line, and then the trolley which runs along Dryden Road.  Get off at Prospect Street, walk two blocks west and ask for the old Bennett place.  I’ll have an eye out for you.”

“All right, sir,” said Swain, again.  “Do you want me to bring some papers, or anything?”

“No; just come as quickly as you can,” I answered, and hung up.

I figured that, even at the best, it would take Swain an hour and a half to make the journey, and I strolled out under the trees again.  Then the thought came to me that I might as well make a little exploration of the neighbourhood, and I sauntered out to the road.  Along it for some distance ran the high wall which bounded Elmhurst, and I saw that the wall had been further fortified by ugly pieces of broken glass set in cement along its top.

I could see a break in the wall, about midway of its length, and, walking past, discovered that this was where the gates were set—­heavy gates of wrought iron, very tall, and surmounted by sharp spikes.  The whole length of the wall was, I judged, considerably over a city block, but there was no other opening in it.