grounds, separating them from the wood. On the other side of this
fence I could hear, as I drew nearer, a kind of splashing noise, and
every now and then the sound of somebody moving about and whistling.

The last few yards consisted of a strip of open grass marked by deep
cart-ruts. Across this I crawled on my hands and knees, and getting
right up against the fence began very carefully to search around for
a peep-hole. At last I found a tiny gap between two of the boards. It
was the merest chink, but by gluing my eye to it I was just able to
see through.

I was looking into a square gravel-covered yard, in the centre of
which a man in blue overalls was cleaning the mud off a small
motor car. He was evidently the owner, for he was a prosperous,
genial-looking person of the retired Major type, and he was lightening
his somewhat damp task by puffing away steadily at a pipe. I watched
him with a kind of bitter jealousy. I had no idea who he was, but
for the moment I hated him fiercely. Why should he be able to potter
around in that comfortable self-satisfied fashion, while I, Neil
Lyndon, starved, soaked, and hunted like a wild beast, was crouching
desperately outside his palings?

It was a natural enough emotion, but I was in too critical a position
to waste time in asking myself questions. I realized that if burglary
had to be done, here was the right spot. By going farther I should
only be running myself into unnecessary risk, and probably without
finding a house any more suitable to my purpose.

I squinted sideways through the hole, trying to master the geography
of the place. On the left was a high bank of laurels, and just at the