For it was low and rambling and shaped like a capital L pushed over on its side. Mainly, it was two stories high, but on the extreme end of the right arm of the recumbent L there had been built an additional floor. This gave it a gay, elfin humpiness that attracted Anthony strangely. Many-hued clouds of creeper spread in beautiful disorder from ground to half-hidden chimney-stacks. Through the leaves peeped leaded windows, as a wood-fairy might spy through her hair at the woodcutter’s son who was really a prince. A flagged walk bordered by a low yew hedge ran before the house; up to this led a flight of stone steps from the lower level of the lawns. Opposite the head of the steps was a verandah. “This here, sir,” explained Mr. Syme unnecessarily, “is rightly the back of the ’ouse.” Anthony gave him his congé and a five-pound note, hinting that his own presence at Marling should not be used as a fount for bar-room gossip. Mr. Syme walked away with a gait quaintly combining the stealth of a conspirator and the alertness of a great detective. Anthony turned in at the little gate and made for the house. At the head of the steps before the verandah he paused. Voices came to his ear. The tone of the louder induced him to walk away from the verandah and along the house to his right. He halted by the first ground-floor window and listened, peering into the room. Inside stood two men, one a little, round-shouldered, black-coated fellow with a dead-white face and hands that twisted nervously; the other tall, burly, crimson-faced, fierce-moustached, clad in police blue with the three stripes of a sergeant on his arm. It was the policeman’s voice that had attracted Anthony’s attention. Now it was raised again, more loudly than before. “You know a blasted sight more o’ this crime than you says,” it roared. The other quivered, lifted a shaking hand to his mouth, and cast a hunted look round the room. He seemed, thought Anthony, remarkably like a ferret. “I don’t, sergeant. Re-really I d-don’t,” he stammered. The sergeant thrust his great face down into that of his victim. “I don’t believe you this mornin’ any more’n I did last night,” he bellowed. “Now, Belford, me lad, you confess! If you ’olds out against Jack ’Iggins you’ll be sorry.” Anthony leaned his arms on the window-sill and thrust head and shoulders into the room. “Now, sergeant,” he said, “this sort of thing’ll never do, you know.” The effect of his intrusion tickled pleasantly his sense of the dramatic. Law and Order recovered first, advanced, big with rage, to the window and demanded what was the meaning of the unprintable intrusion. “Why,” said Anthony, “shall we call it a wish to study at close quarters the methods of the County Constabulary.” “Who the—— ——ing ’ell are you?” The face of Sergeant Higgins was black with wrath. “I,” said Anthony, “am Hawkshaw, the detective!”