o'clock, and I already knew sufficient of the domestic habits of Kelpieshaw as to know that they kept early hours there. But I felt, more from instinct than anything, that Parslewe ought to be put in possession of my news, and that I ought not to leave the imparting of it until next morning, however early. So going out into the hall, I got hold of the boots, and, taking him aside, made inquiries about my chances of getting a car, late as it was. He got one for me—with considerable delay and difficulty—but I took good care not to let him nor its driver know where I was going until I had got clear of the hotel.
The last stage of the road to Kelpieshaw was of such a nature that a car could do no more than crawl over it, and it was nearly midnight when I saw the tower of the old house standing dark and spectral against a moonlit sky. As I expected, there was not a light to be seen in any of the windows, not even in those of the upper part of the tower wherein Parslewe had his library. I felt very lonely when the car had driven off, leaving me in the solitude of the wind-swept courtyard. I knocked on the turret door several
