“There’s a wide sill inside your window.” (And how on earth do you know that? thought Jane.) “If you put a big jar of, say, those yellow tulips there, I’ll know you want to speak to me, and I’ll come here to this potting-shed as soon as I can. You know they keep us pretty busy with roll-calls and things of that sort. I only got back yesterday by the skin of my teeth—I had to bolt.” “Did you—you didn’t pass me.” “No, I didn’t pass you.” There was just a trace of amusement in Mr. Patterson’s voice. Jane pulled her shoe-lace undone, and began to tie it all over again. “Hush!” she said very quick and low. “Some one is coming.” Just where the path ended, not half a dozen yards away, the red-brick wall was pierced by a door. Two round, Scotch rose-bushes, all tiny green leaf and sharp brown prickle, grew like large pin-cushions on either side of the interrupted border. Bright pink nectarine buds shone against the brick like coral studs. The ash-coloured door, rough and sun-blistered, was opening slowly, and into the garden came Raymond Heritage, pushing the door with one hand and holding a basket of bulbs in the other. She was looking back over her shoulder, at something or someone beside her. From inside the potting-shed came Patterson’s voice—just a breath: “Who?” “Lady Heritage.” Jane was up as she spoke and moving away. She reached the door just as Raymond closed it and, turning, saw her. “Oh, Miss Molloy—I was really looking for you. Is Garstin anywhere about?” “I haven’t seen him,” murmured Jane, as if the absent gardener might be blooming unnoticed in one of the borders. “He’s not in the potting-shed? I’ll just look in and see. I want to stand over him and see that he puts these black irises where I want them to go. They come from Palestine, and the last lot failed entirely because he was so obstinate. I’ll get a trowel and mark the place I think.” She moved forward as she spoke, and Jane, horror-struck, stammered: “Let _me_ look. It’s so dusty in there.” She was back at the door of the shed, but Lady Heritage was beside her. “I want a trowel, too,” she said, and Jane felt herself gently pushed over the threshold. They were both just inside the door. It seemed dark after the strong light outside. There was a row of windows along one side, and a broad deal shelf under them. There were piles and piles of pots and boxes. There were hanks of bass and rows of tools, There were watering-cans. There was a length of rubber hose. But there was no George Patterson. Jane put her hand behind her, gripped the jamb of the door, and moved back a pace so that she could lean against it. The pots, the tools, the bass and the rubber hose danced before her bewildered eyes. Lady Heritage put her basket of bulbs down on the wide shelf and said: “Garstin ought to be here. He’s really very tiresome. That’s the worst of old servants. When a gardener has been in a place for forty years as Garstin has, he owns it.” “Shall I find him?” said Jane.