money to be out of this preposterous adventure.

Heritage's hand was stretched towards him, containing two of Mrs.
Morran's jellied scones, of which the Poet had been wise enough to
bring a supply in his pocket. The food cheered him, for he was
growing very hungry, and he began to take an interest in the scene
before him instead of his own thoughts. He observed every detail
of the verandah. There was a door at one end, he noted, giving on
a path which wound down to the sunk garden. As he looked he heard
a sound of steps and saw a man ascending this path.

It was the lame man whom Dougal had called Spittal, the dweller in
the South Lodge. Seen at closer quarters he was an odd-looking
being, lean as a heron, wry-necked, but amazingly quick on his feet.
Had not Mrs. Morran said that he hobbled as fast as other folk ran?
He kept his eyes on the ground and seemed to be talking to himself
as he went, but he was alert enough, for the dropping of a twig from
a dying magnolia transferred him in an instant into a figure of
active vigilance. No risks could be run with that watcher. He took
a key from his pocket, opened the garden door and entered the verandah.
For a moment his shuffle sounded on its tiled floor, and then he
entered the door admitting from the verandah to the House. It was
clearly unlocked, for there came no sound of a turning key.

Dickson had finished the last crumbs of his scones before the man
emerged again. He seemed to be in a greater hurry than ever as he
locked the garden door behind him and hobbled along the west front
of the House till he was lost to sight. After that the time
passed slowly. A pair of yellow wagtails arrived and played at
hide-and-seek among the stuccoed pillars. The little dry scratch of