The Green Eyes of Bâst | Page 3

hatchet-board projecting above the wall which bore
two duplicates of the bill posted upon the gate.
"That seems to confirm it," I declared, peering through the trees in the
direction of the house. "The place has all the appearance of being
deserted."
"There's some mistake," muttered Bolton.
"Then the mistake is not ours," I replied. "See, the bills are headed 'To
be let or sold. The Red House, etc.'"
"H'm," growled Bolton. "It's a funny go, this is. Suppose we have a
look at the garage."
We walked along together to where, set back in a recess, I had often
observed the doors of a garage evidently added to the building by some
recent occupier. Dangling from a key placed in the lock was a ring to
which another key was attached!
"Well, I'm blowed," said Bolton, "this is a funny go, this is."
He unlocked the door and swept the interior of the place with a ray of
light cast by his lantern. There were one or two petrol cans and some
odd lumber suggesting that the garage had been recently used, but no

car, and indeed nothing of sufficient value to have interested even such
a derelict as the man whom we had passed some ten minutes before.
That is if I except a large and stoutly-made packing-case which rested
only a foot or so from the entrance so as partly to block it, and which
from its appearance might possibly have contained spare parts. I
noticed, with vague curiosity, a device crudely representing a seated cat
which was painted in green upon the case.
"If there ever was anything here," said Bolton, "it's been pinched and
we're locking the stable door after the horse has gone. You'll bear me
out, sir, if there's any complaint?"
"Certainly," I replied. "Technically I shall be trespassing if I come in
with you, so I shall say good night."
"Good night, sir," cried the constable, and entering the empty garage,
he closed the door behind him.
I set off briskly alone towards the cottage which I had made my home. I
have since thought that the motives which had induced me to choose
this secluded residence were of a peculiarly selfish order. Whilst I liked
sometimes to be among my fellowmen and whilst I rarely missed an
important first night in London, my inherent weakness for obscure
studies and another motive to which I may refer later had caused me to
abandon my chambers in the Temple and to retire with my library to
this odd little backwater where my only link with Fleet Street, with the
land of theaters and clubs and noise and glitter, was the telephone. I
scarcely need add that I had sufficient private means to enable me to
indulge these whims, otherwise as a working journalist I must have
been content to remain nearer to the heart of things. As it was I
followed the careless existence of the independent free-lance, and since
my work was accounted above the average I was enabled to pick and
choose the subjects with which I should deal. Mine was not an
ambitious nature--or it may have been that stimulus was lacking--and
all I wrote I wrote for the mere joy of writing, whilst my studies, of
which I shall have occasion to speak presently, were not of a nature
calculated to swell my coffers in this commercial-minded age.

Little did I know how abruptly this chosen calm of my life was to be
broken nor how these same studies were to be turned in a new and
strange direction. But if on this night which was to witness the overture
of a horrible drama, I had not hitherto experienced any premonition of
the coming of those dark forces which were to change the whole tenor
of my existence, suddenly, now, in sight of the elm tree which stood
before my cottage the shadow reached me.
Only thus can I describe a feeling otherwise unaccountable which
prompted me to check my steps and to listen. A gust of wind had just
died away, leaving the night silent save for the dripping of rain from
the leaves and the vague and remote roar of the town. Once, faintly, I
thought I detected the howling of a dog. I had heard nothing in the
nature of following footsteps, yet, turning swiftly, I did not doubt that I
should detect the presence of a follower of some kind. This conviction
seized me suddenly and, as I have said, unaccountably. Nor was I
wrong in my surmise.
Fifty yards behind me a vaguely defined figure showed for an instant
outlined against the light of a distant lamp--ere melting into the dense
shadow cast by a clump of trees near the roadside.
Standing quite still, I stared