"Stick in some twigs, an' let's hurry on," said Farrow. "Footprints are first rate, but they'll keep for an hour or two." Thirty yards away, and somewhat to the right, a hump of rock formed the Mont Blanc of that tiny Alp. From its summit, and from no other part of the wood, they could see the east front of The Towers. In fact, while perched there, having climbed its shoulder with great care lest certain definite tokens of a recent intruder should be obliterated, they discovered a dusty motor car ranged between the doctor's runabout and the Fenley limousine, which had returned. The doctor and Miss Sylvia Manning were standing on the broad mosaic which adorned the landing above the steps, standing exactly where Mortimer Fenley had stood when he was stricken to death. With them were two strangers: one tall, burly and official-looking; the other a shrunken little man, whose straw hat, short jacket, and clean-shaven face conveyed, at the distance, a curiously juvenile aspect. Halfway down the steps were Hilton Fenley and Brodie, and all were gazing fixedly at that part of the wood where the keeper and the policeman had popped into view. "Hello!" said Bates. "Who is that little lot?" Clearly, he meant the big man and his diminutive companion. Farrow coughed importantly. "That's Scotland Yard," he said. "Who?" "Detectives from the Yard. Mr. Hilton telephoned for 'em. An' wot's more, they're signalin' to us." "They want us to go back," said Bates. "Mebbe." "There can't be any doubt about it." And, indeed, only a blind man could have been skeptical as to the wishes of the group near the door. "I'm goin' through this wood first," announced Farrow firmly. "Mind how you get down. Them marks may be useful. I'm almost sure the scoundrel fired from this very spot." "Looks like it," agreed Bates, and they descended. Five minutes later they were in the open park, where their assistant scouts awaited them. None of the others had found any indication of a stranger's presence, and Farrow led them to the house in Indian file, by a path. "Scotland Yard is on the job," he announced. "Now we'll be told just wot we reelly ought to have done!" He did not even exchange a furtive glance with Bates, but, for the life of him he could not restrain a note of triumph from creeping into his voice. He noticed, too, that Tomlinson, the butler, not only looked white and shaken, which was natural under the circumstances, but had the haggard aspect of a stout man who may soon become thin by stress of fearsome imaginings. Farrow did not put it that way. "Bates is right," he said to himself. "Tomlinson has something on his chest. By jingo, this affair _is_ a one-er an' no mistake!" At any rate, local talent had no intention of kowtowing too deeply before the majesty of the "Yard," for the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department himself could have achieved no more in the time than Police Constable Farrow. CHAPTER III THE HOUNDS