It was just before the dinner hour that there came the first unusual incident of the day. Mirabelle was standing by the garden gate, intent upon the glories of the evening sky, which was piled high with red and slate-coloured cumuli. The glass was falling and a wet night was promised. But the loveliness of that lavish colouring held her. And then she became dimly aware that a man was coming towards the house from the direction of Gloucester. He walked in the middle of the road slowly, as though he, too, were admiring the view and there was no need to hurry. His hands were behind him, his soft felt hat at the back of his head. A stocky-looking man, but his face was curiously familiar. He turned his unsmiling eyes in her direction, and, looking again at his strong features, at the tiny grey-black moustache under his aquiline nose, she was certain she had seen him before. Perhaps she had passed him in the street, and had retained a subconscious mental picture of him. He slowed his step until, when he came abreast of her, he stopped. “This is Heavytree Lane?” he asked, in a deep, musical voice. “No—the lane is the first break in the hedge,” she smiled. “I’m afraid it isn’t much of a road—generally it is ankle-deep in mud.” He looked past her to the house; his eyes ranged the windows, dropped for a moment upon a climbing clematis, and came back to her. “I don’t know Gloucestershire very well,” he said, and added: “You have a very nice house.” “Yes,” she said in surprise. “And a garden.” And then, innocently: “Do you grow onions?” She stared at him and laughed. “I think we do—I am not sure. My aunt looks after the kitchen garden.” His sad eyes wandered over the house again. “It is a very nice place,” he said, and, lifting his hat, went on. Digby was out: he had gone for a gentle walk, and, looking up the road after the stranger, she saw the guard appear round a bend in the road, saw him stop and speak to the stranger. Apparently they knew one another, for they shook hands at meeting, and after a while Digby pointed down the road to where she was standing, and she saw the man nod. Soon after the stranger went on out of view. Who could he be? Was it an additional guard that the three men had put to protect her? When Digby came up to her, she asked him. “That gentleman, miss? He is Mr. Poiccart.” “Poiccart?” she said, delighted. “Oh, I wish I had known!” “I was surprised to see him,” said the guard. “As a matter of fact, he’s the one of the three gentlemen I’ve met the most. He’s generally in Curzon Street, even when the others are away.” Digby had nothing to say about Poiccart except that he was a very quiet gentleman and took no active part in the operations of the Just Men. “I wonder why he wanted to know about onions?” asked the girl thoughtfully. “That sounded awfully mysterious.” It would not have been so mysterious to Leon.