He observed every detail of the verandah.
There was a door at one end, he noted, giving on a path which wound down to the sunk garden.

As he looked he heard a sound of steps and saw a man ascending this path.
It was the lame man whom Dougal had called Spittal, the dweller in the South Lodge.

Seen at closer quarters he was an odd-looking being, lean as a heron, wry-necked, but amazingly quick on his feet.

Had not Mrs.
Morran said that he hobbled as fast as other folk ran?
He kept his eyes on the ground and seemed to be talking to himself as he went, but he was alert enough, for the dropping of a twig from a dying magnolia transferred him in an instant into a figure of active vigilance.

No risks could be run with that watcher.