valley, looking through woods to the sea. The place was visible from
the station, from which, indeed, standing as it did on the top of a
hill, the view was extensive.

Half-way up the slope on the other side of the valley we left the road
and made our way across a spongy field, Ukridge explaining that this
was a short cut. We climbed through a hedge, crossed a stream and
another field, and after negotiating a difficult bank, topped with
barbed wire, found ourselves in a garden.

Ukridge mopped his forehead, and restored his pince-nez to their
original position from which the passage of the barbed wire had
dislodged them.

"This is the place," he said. "We've come in by the back way. Saves
time. Tired, Millie?"

"A little, dear. I should like some tea."

"Same here," I agreed.

"That'll be all right," said Ukridge. "A most competent man of the
name of Beale and his wife are in charge at present. I wrote to them
telling them that we were coming to-day. They will be ready for us.
That's the way to do things, Garny old horse. Quiet efficiency.
Perfect organisation."

We were at the front door by this time. Ukridge rang the bell. The
noise echoed through the house, but there was no answering footsteps.
He rang again. There is no mistaking the note of a bell in an empty