“Hello!” I said.

A voice with which I was unfamiliar, a man’s voice speaking rather thickly, replied: 

“Is that Mr. Addison?”

“Yes.”

“I have just arrived from Crossleys with Inspector Gatton.  He requests me to ask you to meet him by the police-box at the corner of the high street immediately.”

“Very good,” I said.  “I will come.”

“And,” continued the voice—­“could you spare Coates with the car for an hour?”

“Certainly,” I replied.  “For what do you want him?”

“If he will take the car to Denmark Hill Station and be there by a quarter past eight,” continued the voice, “Detective-Sergeant Blythe will meet him.  There is a large box,” he added, “which Inspector Gatton wishes to have taken to your house.”

“Very well,” I said.  “Coates will start in ten minutes’ time, and I will come along immediately to meet Inspector Gatton.”

I replaced the telephone upon the little table and went out into the garden, whither my man had returned.

“Coates,” I said, “get out the Rover.”

Coates immediately ceased his gardening operations and stood upright in an attitude of attention.

“Very good, sir.”

“You will just have time to get ready at the garage and return here to admit Sir Eric Coverly at eight o’clock.  I am going out, now, to meet Inspector Gatton.  But inform Sir Eric that I shall be back in a few minutes.  Show him into the study and make him comfortable.  You will then proceed in the Rover to Denmark Hill Station.  You will meet there a man with a box—­a detective from Scotland Yard who will make himself known to you.  His name is Blythe.  You have to bring the box back here.”

“Very good, sir,” repeated Coates.

And as he entered the house he was already stripping off the old shooting jacket which he wore in the garden.  For my part I slipped a light top-coat over my somewhat untidy house attire, and taking my hat and a stick, stepped quickly out along the road in the direction of the village street.  A brisk walk brought me to the little sentry-box under the trees.  But Gatton was not to be seen.  Indeed, with the exception of several ordinary pedestrians who were obviously returning from the city to their homes (all of whom I scrutinized, thinking that Coverly might come this way) and the constable on duty at the point, there was no one about who looked in the least like either of my expected visitors.

Having waited for some ten minutes unavailingly, I spoke to the man in the box.

“Good evening, constable,” I said; “I expected to meet a friend here—­Inspector Gatton, of Scotland Yard—­you may know him?”

“I know of him quite well, sir,” answered the constable, “and should recognize him if I saw him.  But he has not been here this evening.”

“You have seen no one hanging about who might have been sent by him?”

“No one, sir.”