This was not very informative, but Michael was not discouraged. Again he went over the map, and in the end concluded that Gallows Farm was the only house in the neighbourhood which was in any way under suspicion. He snatched a hasty meal in the aerodrome mess, and it was growing dark when he skirted the field and took the road along which the cart had come in the early morning. Presently, as he came over the crest of the hill, the farm showed dimly in the circle of his powerful headlamps. There were no lights or sign of life about the house. The long, white, ugly wall was surmounted by broken glass, and the gate, which opened on to the road, was securely fastened. There was no evidence of a bell-pull. He went back to the car, and, finding an electric torch, continued his investigations. The farm building lay on the slope of the hill and he had to descend to get to the back of the premises. Here the gate was larger and more insecure, and his attempt to open it was followed by a furious barking and straining of chains. He listened, interested; the barking had a familiar sound. It was not the deep roar of the mastiff, or the half-frightened, half-angry discordance of the terrier; there was a howl in that note that he had heard before on dark nights as he had passed through sleeping Indian villages. “If they’re not native dogs, I’ve never heard any,” he said softly, and continued his circuit. From the declivity at the back of the house he could not see the top windows of the building, low as it was, and he turned to the front of the house and rapped on the heavy black wooden gate. Somebody must have been aroused by the barking of the dogs, for almost immediately the sharp voice of a woman called: “Who’s there?” “I want to see the master of this house,” said Dorn. “Well, you can’t see him, not at this time; he’s in bed.” “Then let me see you. Open this gate,” said Michael. There was an interval of silence, and then the woman said: “Go away, or I’ll telephone for the police.” That pause before she spoke betrayed the situation to the keen-witted man at the gate. There was somebody else behind that barrier, somebody who was prompting the woman in a whisper. “Will you please tell your master, who is in bed, but not, I think, asleep, that unless you open the gate I’ll come over the top?” This time the woman needed no prompting. “If you dare, I’ll set my dogs on you!” she screamed. He heard her footsteps running on the cobbled yard, and presently the throaty growl of the dogs as they came flying before her. “Now will you go away?” shrieked the woman. “If they get out they’ll tear the heart out of you, _ek dum_!” Michael Dorn uttered an involuntary exclamation. “_Ek dum_?” Who was this who used the Indian phrase? “I think you’d better let me in, my sister,” he said, and he spoke in Hindustani. There was no reply for a moment, and now he was sure somebody was whispering--whispering fiercely, urgently.