The object of it all defied his imagination, but he was more than ever certain that the girl at the window overlooking the garden had been real and no figment of delirium. As he walked slowly out to the road again, his mind was busy with possible theories. He had learned much but little. Suspicion created by the barred road was strengthened by what he had found at the house. For some unfathomable reason, the girl at the window and those associated with her were peculiarly anxious to avoid meeting him. But the longer he considered the problem, the more hopeless it became. He determined to consult the local real estate people, to endeavour to trace the ownership of the place, and to identify this “John Brown” who was so pointedly anxious to avoid him. CHAPTER V. BARRY IS HAUNTED “In short,” said Jim, “the princess may be described as still at large?” “Shut up about ‘the princess,’” Barry retorted. “At least I have found out that the woman didn’t lie. The house actually belongs to someone called John Brown.” “Then, in private life, the--the lady--must be a Miss or a Mrs. Brown. Not a romantic name. But what did the realty sportsman tell you about this mysterious citizen Brown?” “Very little. Said he had never seen him. And, for your enlightenment, there is no Mrs. Brown and no Miss Brown.” “Odder and odder. Have you thought that she may have been the daily help bound for a fancy-dress orgy?” “I have not.” “Well, think about it. Sherlock Holmes would have thought about it at once. Another theory. Mr. Brown may be a bootlegger! A third theory----” “I don’t want to hear it!” Jim Sakers looked at Barry reproachfully. “You are not tackling this thing in the light of pure reason,” he protested. “The proper method is to think of every possible solution, jot ’em all down, and then pick out the right one.” “Go to blazes!” said Barry. He had begun to cultivate a sort of New Jersey complex, and was forever driving out into the hills which had been the scene of his strange and unfortunate experience. One afternoon he drove as far as the club from which he had been returning when the accident had occurred. He had no particular purpose in view, beyond that of travelling over the now familiar route. The golf course was thickly dotted with players, but none of his intimate set seemed to be in the clubhouse or on the tennis courts. He smoked a reflective pipe on the veranda, watching long drives and short drives from the first tee, and then set out for home again. Rain threatened; indeed, was only checked by a high wind. And at a point in the descending road which seemed to be peculiarly familiar for some reason, he pulled up and sat staring as one who has seen an apparition. A long-dormant memory awoke. Through a rift in the driving clouds sunlight poured suddenly upon a building halfway down the slope beneath, surrounded by high walls and having a curious turretlike structure at one corner!