He passed to the coffee-room, ate a light lunch, smoked a cigarette, looked in at the billiard-room, and on the stroke of three reappeared at the chemist’s store. In a few minutes he was provided with a package carefully wrapped, and by twenty minutes after the hour was soaring back to his friend’s laboratory. Alighting as before at the creek, he walked up the path. The door of the shed was locked. He rapped on it, but received no answer, and supposed that Micklewright had returned to the house, though he noticed with some surprise that his suit-case still stood where he had left it. He lifted it, went on to the cottage, and turned the handle of the front door. This also was locked. Feeling slightly irritated, Burton knocked more loudly. No one came to the door; there was not a sound from within. He knocked again; still without result. Leaving his suit-case on the doorstep, he went to the back, and tried the door on that side. It was locked. "This is too bad," he thought. "Pickles is an absent-minded old buffer, but I never knew him so absolutely forgetful as this. Evidently he and the old woman are both out." He returned to the front of the house, and seeing that the catch of one of the windows was not fastened, he threw up the lower sash, hoisted his suit-case over the sill, and himself dropped into the room. The table was laid for lunch, but nothing had been used. "Rummy go!" said Burton to himself. Conscious of a smell of burning, he crossed the passage, and glanced in at Micklewright’s den, then at the kitchen, where the air was full of the fumes of something scorching. A saucepan stood on the dying fire. Lifting the lid, he saw that it contained browned and blackened potatoes. He opened the oven door, and fell back before a cloud of smoke impregnated with the odour of burnt flesh. "They must have been called away very suddenly," he thought. "Perhaps there’s a telegram that explains it." He was returning to his friend’s room when he was suddenly arrested by a slight sound within the house. "Who’s there?" he called, going to the door. From the upper floor came an indescribable sound. Now seriously alarmed, Burton sprang up the stairs and entered Micklewright’s bedroom. It was empty and undisturbed. The spare room which he was himself to occupy was equally unremarkable. Once more he heard the sound: it came from the housekeeper’s room. "Are you there?" he called, listening at the closed door. He flung it open at a repetition of the inarticulate sound. There, on the bed, lay the old housekeeper in a huddled heap, her hands and feet bound, and a towel tied over her head. This he removed in a moment. [Illustration: "Oh, Mr. Burton, sir"] "Oh, Mr. Burton, sir, I’m so glad you’ve come," gasped the old woman; "oh, those awful men!" "What has happened, Mrs. Jones?" cried Burton; "where’s the doctor?" "Oh, I don’t know, sir. I’m all of a shake, and the mutton’ll be burnt to a cinder."