"Come on." The path, sometimes marshy, sometimes hard-packed clay or stone flags deeply littered, led them a winding course in the night.

Now and then shapes met them and pattered past in single file, furtive and sinister.
At last, where a wall loomed white, Heywood stopped, and, kicking at a wooden gate, gave a sing-song cry.

With rattling weights, the door swung open, and closed behind them heavily.

A kind of empty garden, a bare little inclosure, shone dimly in the light that streamed from a low, thick-set veranda at the farther end.

Dogs flew at them, barking outrageously.
"Down, Chang! Down, Chutney!" cried their master.