the first phase of an experience more strange and infinitely more
horrible than any of which I had ever known or even read.

The shadow had not yet reached me.

We talked little enough on the way, for the breeze when it came was
keen and troublesome, so that I was often engaged in clutching my hat.
Except for a dejected-looking object, obviously a member of the tramp
fraternity, who passed us near the gate of the old chapel, we met
never a soul from the time that we left the police-box until the
moment when the high brick wall guarding the Red House came into view
beyond a line of glistening wet hedgerow.

"This is the house, constable," I said. "The garage is beyond the main
entrance."

We proceeded as far as the closed gates, whereupon:

"There you are, sir," said Bolton triumphantly. "I told you it was
empty."

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.