An estate agent’s bill faced us, setting forth the desirable features of the residence, the number of bedrooms and reception rooms, modern conveniences, garage, etc., together with the extent of the garden, lawn and orchard.

A faint creaking sound drew my glance upward, and stepping back a pace I stared at a hatchet-board projecting above the wall which bore two duplicates of the bill posted upon the gate.

“That seems to confirm it,” I declared, peering through the trees in the direction of the house.  “The place has all the appearance of being deserted.”

“There’s some mistake,” muttered Bolton.

“Then the mistake is not ours,” I replied.  “See, the bills are headed ‘To be let or sold.  The Red House, etc.’”

“H’m,” growled Bolton.  “It’s a funny go, this is.  Suppose we have a look at the garage.”

We walked along together to where, set back in a recess, I had often observed the doors of a garage evidently added to the building by some recent occupier.  Dangling from a key placed in the lock was a ring to which another key was attached!

“Well, I’m blowed,” said Bolton, “this is a funny go, this is.”

He unlocked the door and swept the interior of the place with a ray of light cast by his lantern.  There were one or two petrol cans and some odd lumber suggesting that the garage had been recently used, but no car, and indeed nothing of sufficient value to have interested even such a derelict as the man whom we had passed some ten minutes before.  That is if I except a large and stoutly-made packing-case which rested only a foot or so from the entrance so as partly to block it, and which from its appearance might possibly have contained spare parts.  I noticed, with vague curiosity, a device crudely representing a seated cat which was painted in green upon the case.

“If there ever was anything here,” said Bolton, “it’s been pinched and we’re locking the stable door after the horse has gone.  You’ll bear me out, sir, if there’s any complaint?”

“Certainly,” I replied.  “Technically I shall be trespassing if I come in with you, so I shall say good night.”

“Good night, sir,” cried the constable, and entering the empty garage, he closed the door behind him.

I set off briskly alone towards the cottage which I had made my home.  I have since thought that the motives which had induced me to choose this secluded residence were of a peculiarly selfish order.  Whilst I liked sometimes to be among my fellowmen and whilst I rarely missed an important first night in London, my inherent weakness for obscure studies and another motive to which I may refer later had caused me to abandon my chambers in the Temple and to retire with my library to this odd little backwater where my only link with Fleet Street, with the land of theaters and clubs and noise and glitter, was the telephone.  I scarcely need add that I had sufficient private means