"That's where I used to climb over to post the letters. There's a tree
on the other side of the wall as convenient as the letter-box. I used to
run down the half-mile of avenue at night."
"There might have been thieves," exclaimed Feversham.
"There were thorns," said Ethne, and turning through the gates she drove
up to the porch of the long, irregular grey house. "Well, we have still
a day before the dance."
"I suppose the whole country-side is coming," said Feversham.
"It daren't do anything else," said Ethne, with a laugh. "My father
would send the police to fetch them if they stayed away, just as he
fetched your friend Mr. Durrance here. By the way, Mr. Durrance has
sent me a present--a Guarnerius violin."
The door opened, and a thin, lank old man, with a fierce peaked face
like a bird of prey, came out upon the steps. His face softened,
however, into friendliness when he saw Feversham, and a smile played
upon his lips. A stranger might have thought that he winked. But his
left eyelid continually drooped over the eye.
"How do you do?" he said. "Glad to see you. Must make yourself at home.
If you want any whiskey, stamp twice on the floor with your foot.
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