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"Besides," added Tommy, as an afterthought, "I've great faith in Tuppence."

The journey was wearisome, with many stops, and crowded carriages. They had

to change twice, once at Doncaster, once at a small junction. Ebury was a

deserted station with a solitary porter, to whom Tommy addressed himself:

"Can you tell me the way to the Moat House?"

The Moat House? It's a tidy step from here. The big house near the sea, you

mean?"

Tommy assented brazenly. After listening to the porter's meticulous but

perplexing directions, they prepared to leave the station. It was beginning to rain,

and they turned up the collars of their coats as they trudged through the slush of

the road. Suddenly Tommy halted.

"Wait a moment." He ran back to the station and tackled the porter anew.

Look here, do you remember a young lady who arrived by an earlier train, the

2.50 from London? She'd probably ask you the way to the Moat House."

He described Tuppence as well as he could, but the porter shook his head.

Several people had arrived by the train in question. He could not call to mind one

young lady in particular. But he was quite certain that no one had asked him the

way to the Moat House.

Tommy rejoined Julius, and explained. Depression was settling on him like a

leaden weight. He felt convinced that their quest was going to be unsuccessful.

The enemy had over three hours' start. Three hours was more than enough for

Mr. Brown. He would not ignore the possibility of the telegram having been found.

The way seemed endless. Once they took the wrong turning and went nearly half

a mile out of their direction. It was past seven o'clock when a small boy told them

that "t' Moat House" was just past the next corner.

A rusty iron gate swinging dismally on its hinges! An overgrown drive thick with

leaves. There was something about the place that struck a chill to both their

hearts. They went up the deserted drive. The leaves deadened their footsteps. The

daylight was almost gone. It was like walking in a world of ghosts. Overhead the

branches flapped and creaked with a mournful note. Occasionally a sodden leaf

drifted silently down, startling them with its cold touch on their cheek.

171

The Secret Adversary