Chuckling over having had the last word, Hall mounted his machine and pedalled slowly round the corner, only too anxious to deliver the last letter and get home to his tripe and onions. He knew that the next turning was in Ladysmith Road, and it was as well that he did, for the mists were so thick that he proceeded with some difficulty. The man could hear the noise of the waves through the fog, and shivered in the chill, raw air. As there were few lamps he found himself in complete darkness when he bicycled up the road, and therefore had to ride cautiously. Finally, he was compelled to dismount, and take his machine on to the pavement, feeling for guidance along the fence on the right-hand side. Shortly he came to the first gate, and the electric torch he carried showed him in black-painted letters "The Firs," but he passed that gate as not being the one he wanted. The second gate he also passed, as it was inscribed "The Elms," and then he walked for quite a long way in the dense gloom to find Maranatha which stood by itself. Finally, he stumbled on the third gate, the inscription of which told him that he had reached his goal when he flashed the electric torch on to the black letters. Hall left his machine leaning against the fence in the dim light of the street lamp--for at this point there was one--and opened the gate to walk slowly up the path between the tangled herbage and under the dripping trees. It curved gradually--a cobble-stone path overgrown with weeds--until it ended in an open space before the house. Through the mists a light beamed from a fanlight over the door, and Hall, anxious to get home, rapped loudly in the approved style of the postman. There was no answer, although he waited for quite a minute, and he searched with his torch for the letterbox. Just as he found it and was about to slip in the letter the door suddenly opened. A stream of radiance poured forth to illuminate the untidy garden, and a man dashed out in a violent hurry. In his exit, he drove Hall against one of the brick pillars of the porch, and by the time the postman recovered his breath the man had disappeared, running swiftly. "Here's a rum go," said Hall, speaking to himself. "I wonder if that's the blessed baronite, and what he's up to? Here!"--he raised his voice as he faced the open door--"anyone in? I can't wait here all night!"