The man--it was Spittal--walked rapidly along the verandah and out
of the garden door. He was talking to himself again, and Dickson,
who had a glimpse of his face, thought he looked both evil and furious.
Then came some anxious moments, for had the man glanced back when he
was once outside, he must have seen the tell-tale ladder. But he
seemed immersed in his own reflections, for he hobbled steadily along
the house front till he was lost to sight.

"That'll be the end o' them the day," said Dougal, as he helped
Heritage to pull up the ladder and stow it away. "We've got the
place to oursels, now. Forward, men, forward." He tried the handle
of the House door and led the way in.

A narrow paved passage took them into what had once been the garden
room, where the lady of the house had arranged her flowers, and the
tennis racquets and croquet mallets had been kept. It was very dusty,
and on the cobwebbed walls still hung a few soiled garden overalls.
A door beyond opened into a huge murky hall, murky, for the windows
were shuttered, and the only light came through things like port-holes
far up in the wall. Dougal, who seemed to know his way about,
halted them. "Stop here till I scout a bit. The women bide in a
wee room through that muckle door." Bare feet stole across the oak
flooring, there was the sound of a door swinging on its hinges, and
then silence and darkness. Dickson put out a hand for companionship
and clutched Heritage's; to his surprise it was cold and all a-tremble.
They listened for voices, and thought they could detect a far-away sob.

It was some minutes before Dougal returned. "A bonny kettle o'
fish," he whispered. "They're both greetin'. We're just in time.