Coates had effectually disillusioned several of them on this point, but, nevertheless, the cottage had become distasteful to me.  I realized that I must seek a new residence without delay.  Shall I add that the primary cause of my reclusion no longer operated so powerfully?  Of my dreams at this time I will speak later; but here I may say that I knew, and accepted the knowledge with a fearful joy, that if my new house of hope was doomed to be shattered, no spot in broad England could offer me rest again.

It was not then, until late that night, that I returned to my once peaceful abode.  Coates was waiting up for me, but he had nothing of importance to report, apparently, until, when I had dismissed him, he turned in the doorway, and: 

“Excuse me, sir,” he said—­and cleared his throat.

“Yes, Coates?”

“About half an hour ago, sir, the dogs all around started howling, sir.  I thought I’d better mention it, as Inspector Gatton asked me this morning if I had ever heard the dogs howling.”

I looked at him straightly.

“Inspector Gatton asked you thus?”

“He did, sir.  So I have reported the occurrence.  Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Coates,” I replied.

But for long enough after his departure I sat there in the armchair in my study, thinking over this seemingly trivial occurrence.  From where I sat I could see the light shining upon the gilt-lettered title of Maspero’s “Egyptian Art”—­and my thoughts promised to be ill bedfellows.

Contrary to custom, I slept that night with closed windows!  And although I awakened twice, once at two o’clock and again at four, thinking that I had heard the mournful signal of the dogs, nothing but my own uneasy imagination disturbed my slumbers.

Breakfast despatched, and my correspondence dealt with, I sent Coates to the garage for my little car, and since I should have another companion, left him behind, and myself drove to Isobel’s flat.  Woman-like, she was not nearly ready, and there was much bustling on the part of the repentant Marie—­who had been retained in spite of her share in the tragedy of Sir Marcus’s death—­before we finally set out for Mrs. Wentworth’s.

Isobel was very silent on the way, but once I intercepted a sidelong glance and felt my heart leaping madly when she blushed.

Mrs. Wentworth made me very welcome as had ever been her way.  She was an eccentric, but embarrassingly straightforward old lady; and if I had heeded her simple motherly counsel in the past all might have been different.

She bore Isobel off to her room, leaving me to my own devices, for she had never observed any ceremony towards me in all the years that I had known her, but had taught me to make myself at home beneath her hospitable roof.  I knew, too, because she had never troubled to disguise the fact, that she regarded Isobel and me as made for one another.  Isobel’s engagement to poor Eric Coverly, Mrs. Wentworth had all along regarded as a ghastly farce, and I can never forget her reception of me on the occasion of my first visit after returning from Mesopotamia.