He put his flashlight over the gate and the supporting piers, and discovered a bell, evidently brand new, and recently fixed. He made no attempt to press the little white button, but continued his reconnaissance. About half-a-dozen yards inside the gateway was a small cottage, from which a light showed, and apparently the bell communicated with this dwelling. Whilst he was waiting, he heard a whistle and a quick footstep coming up the road, and drew into the shadow. Somebody came to the gate; he heard the faint tinkle of a bell and a door opened. The new-comer was a newspaper boy, who pushed a bundle of evening papers through the iron bars and went off again. Tarling waited until he heard the door of the cottage or lodge close. Then he made a circuit of the house, hoping to find another entrance. There was evidently a servants' entrance at the back, leading from the lane, but this too was closed. Throwing his light up, he saw that there was no broken glass on top of the wall, as there had been in the front of the house, and, making a jump, he caught the stone coping and drew himself up and astride. He dropped into the darkness on the other side without any discomfort to himself, and made his cautious way towards the house. Dogs were the danger, but apparently Mrs. Rider did not keep dogs, and his progress was unchallenged. He saw no light either in the upper or lower windows until he got to the back. Here was a pillared-porch, above which had been built what appeared to be a conservatory. Beneath the porch was a door and a barred window, but it was from the conservatory above that a faint light emanated. He looked round for a ladder without success. But the portico presented no more difficulties than the wall had done. By stepping on to the window-sill and steadying himself against one of the pillars, he could reach an iron stanchion, which had evidently been placed to support the framework of the superstructure. From here to the parapet of the conservatory itself was but a swing. This glass-house had casement windows, one of which was open, and he leaned on his elbows and cautiously intruded his head. The place was empty. The light came from an inner room opening into the glass sheltered balcony. Quickly he slipped through the windows and crouched under the shadow of a big oleander. The atmosphere of the conservatory was close and the smell was earthy. He judged from the hot-water pipes which his groping hands felt that it was a tiny winter garden erected by the owner of the house for her enjoyment in the dark, cold days. French windows admitted to the inner room, and, peering through the casement curtains which covered them, Tarling saw Mrs. Rider. She was sitting at a desk, a pen in her hand, her chin on her finger-tips. She was not writing, but staring blankly at the wall, as though she were at a loss for what to say.