The front yard, a full half acre in extent, was a tangled mass of bushes and weeds, a high, untrimmed hedge shutting off all view of the road.

The narrow brick path winding through this mass of vegetation was scarcely discernible, apparently seldom, if ever, used.

I was unable to determine the position of the gate so luxuriant was the weed growth, and thick the shrubbery.

From the foot of the steps a narrow passage trampled into the dirt circled the corner of the house, disappearing within a few feet.

This was the only sign visible of human occupancy.
Convinced that this must lead to the rear, and possibly the negro cabins where Coombs slept, I followed its tortuous windings, although half afraid to desert my guardianship of the house even for this purpose.