A tour of the mansion brought nothing new to light and Adam Adams left by the back way and walked down to the brook.  Then he leaped the stream and took to a narrow path leading through the woods beyond.  Deep in the woods he paused, to make several changes in his appearance, putting on a light wig and blue goggles and also an old-fashioned collar and necktie.  Then he rubbed a little brown powder on his hands and face, rendering his complexion several shades darker than ordinary,

From a map of the county he had studied the surrounding roads thoroughly, and soon came out on a highway leading to Matlock Styles’ residence.  He was more than ever interested in the Englishman and wondered what John Watkins, Tom Ostrello and Styles might have in common.

In the distance he presently beheld a house he knew must be the Styles place.  There was a turn in the road and instead of going up to the house by the front way the detective leaped a fence and passed through a wheatfield.  Beyond this, and quite close to the house and the out-buildings, was a field planted with corn, between the rows of which were pumpkins and squashes.

He had hoped to gain the vicinity of the residence without being observed, as it was now growing darker, but he was not yet halfway through the cornfield when the deep baying of a mastiff burst upon his ear, coming nearer and nearer.

“Hullo! this is something I didn’t bargain for,” he muttered.  He did not wish to shoot a valuable dog and at the same time he did not intend to run the risk of being bitten and perhaps torn to pieces.

He halted and drew his pistol, and a second later the dog burst into view.  He was a full-blooded mastiff and a magnificent creature in every way.  He came to a halt and showed his teeth, and presently his mate also appeared.

“Back there!” cried the detective.  “Back, I say!” But the dogs only came closer, baying loudly and eying him in anything but a friendly fashion.

“Hi, there, Nelson!” came a voice from the other side of the cornfield.  “Hi, Queen, what’s the matter?”

“Call off your dogs, unless you want me to shoot them!” exclaimed Adam Adams.

“Blast you, don’t you shoot my dogs,” was the answer, and in a moment more Matlock Styles put in an appearance.  He carried a dog-whip and motioned the animals away.  “Back, Nelson, you bloody brute!  Back, Queen!” And both animals slunk to his rear.

“Thanks!  I am glad you came,” said Adam Adams, and slipped his pistol back into his pocket.

“Are you?” sneered the Englishman.  “If you had killed one of those dogs you would have gotten into a mess, I can warrant.  They are worth a hundred pounds—­five hundred dollars—­each.”

“Great smoke!  I’m glad I didn’t touch ’em, sir.  I couldn’t pay for one leg,” and the detective grinned.

“What are you doing in this field?”

“I thought I’d take a short-cut to the Knoxbury road.  It’s getting late and I want to get back to the tavern there.”