It stood apart from the rest of the house at the end of the wing which Parrish had constructed. The wing consisted of a single ground floor and contained the drawing-room—which was scarcely ever used, as both Parrish and his guests preferred the more congenial surroundings of the lounge—and the library. A long corridor panelled in oak led off the hall to the new wing. On to this corridor both the drawing-room and the library gave. Halfway down the corridor a small passage ran off. It separated the drawing-room from the library and ended in a door leading into the gardens at the back of the house. It was to the new wing that Horace Trevert and Dr. Romain now hastened. They hurried across the hall, where the big lamp of dulled glass threw a soft yellow light, and entered the corridor through the heavy oak door which shut it off from the hall. The corridor was wrapt in silence. Halfway down, where the small passage ran to the garden door, the electric light was burning. Horace Trevert ran down the corridor ahead of the doctor and was the first to reach the library door. He knocked sharply, then turned the handle. The door was locked. “Hartley!” he cried and rapped again. “Ha-a-artley! Open the door! It’s me, Horace!” Again he knocked and rattled the handle. Not a sound came from the locked room. There was an instant’s silence. Horace and the doctor exchanged an interrogatory look. From behind the closed door came the steady ticking of a clock. The silence was so absolute that both men heard it. Then the door at the end of the corridor was flung open and Bude appeared. He was running at a quick ambling trot, his heavy tread shaking the passage. “Oh? sir,” he cried, “whatever is it? What has happened?” Horace spoke quickly, incisively. “Something’s happened to Mr. Parrish, Bude,” he said. “The door’s locked and he doesn’t answer. We’ll have to break the door down.” Bude shook his head. “It’s solid oak, sir,” he began. Then he raised his hand. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said, as though an idea had struck him. “If we were to go out by the garden door here, we might get in through the window. We could break the glass if needs be!” “That’s it!” exclaimed Horace. “Come on, Doctor!” He dashed down the corridor towards the little passage. The doctor laid a hand on Bude’s arm. “One of us had better stay here,” he said with a meaning glance at the closed door. The butler raised an affrighted face to his. “Go with Sir Horace, Bude,” said the doctor. “I’ll stay!” Outside in the gardens of Harkings it was a raw, damp evening, pitch-black now, with little gusts of wind which shook the naked bushes of the rosery. The garden door led by a couple of shallow steps on to a gravel path which ran all along the back of the house. The path extended right up to the wall of the house. On the other side it flanked the rosery.