Jim turned over this proposition thoughtfully. “Yes――we could do that.... But don’t you think we’d be beaten?” “I see you’re doubtful. I’m quite good you know――far better than you’d believe.” “But _I’m_ not very good, and Edward’s awfully good at all games――I mean outdoor games. He’s splendid at cricket.” “I dare say; but I shouldn’t mind betting that he hasn’t played much croquet:――not nearly so much as I have. What do you think?” “We’ll take them on anyway,” said Jim, generously. CHAPTER IV AT THE WINDOW ‘And a boy leans over a lighted window-sill, ... his head on his arm. Like a white moth his thought flies into the night.’ ――_John Alford._ There was no moon, and the last faint glimmer of a prolonged twilight concealed more than it revealed. Pan and Syrinx, the two stable cats, glided like ghosts from their hiding-place, pausing guiltily, every yard or two, as they crossed the lawn, bent on secret deeds that would never be divulged, seeking the shadows and moving forward stealthily, vanishing at last into the darkness. Presently from that darkness there arose two unearthly screams――blood-chilling, horrible:――then silence, sinister and profound. Those dreadful shrieks had brought a watchful, astonished Pouncer to the window. Indignant at suspected immoralities, and lawless, possibly criminal joys, his round eyes searched the night but could discover nothing. Pouncer was on the side of respectability and the police: he could never have even superficial dealings with Pan or Syrinx.... * * * * * Light shone in the windows of three rooms, two on the ground floor, and one higher up. It was not the blazing light of gas, but the subdued, ruddy glow of shaded lamps. In one of these lower rooms Canon Annesley sat at a table littered with books and papers. Before him was a volume of _The Golden Bough_, and he turned the leaves rapidly, looking for a marked passage which, when he found it, was not the one he wanted.... * * * * * In another room Aunt Caroline was writing a letter to her sister, telling of the arrival of the children, of all the events of the past day. Her pen raced on almost without a pause, and sometimes a smile flickered across her face. She enjoyed writing letters, and made a hobby of it. Certain of her correspondents were even slightly irritated by the promptitude with which she replied to their epistles――a promptitude that left them in the perpetual condition of ‘owing Caroline a letter,’ no matter how frequently they might discharge their debt.... * * * * *